HEAD, ON THE FLOOR, DEFINES THIS SPACE

& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground-----------à>I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------àas if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------àas if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or------>& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,---------------------------------->----àEach Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------à The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------à The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----à>a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). You’ll remember the City, in the way we walked upon it, you’ll remember my Body in the City, behind closed Doors, by the way you Acted up/on it---------------> & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). You’ll remember the City, in the way we walked upon it, you’ll remember my Body in the City, behind closed Doors, by the way you Acted up/on it--------------->within (within) the space of the next few steps, this will be our secret. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content---------------à& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). You’ll remember the City, in the way we walked upon it, you’ll remember my Body in the City, behind closed Doors, by the way you Acted up/on it--------------->within (within) the space of the next few steps, this will be our secret. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). You’ll remember the City, in the way we walked upon it, you’ll remember my Body in the City, behind closed Doors, by the way you Acted up/on it--------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). Thus, it is from your Body that I do not write these Words, accepted within a *Mouth; this being a few Rules to our drive through (through). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------à fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. I thought, as humanely possible, the sign doesn’t fucking Happen, in part, my Beating Heart (to beat). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------à The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& this is where I began to harass the fucking Idea. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& every Night which drags us further along, is dragging us further from Sense------------------>& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). Which reasons: the Body as if, it would dare to exceed it’s own fucking Content--------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say-------Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). In which one found, the raucous Action that calluses the Skin, was always, The Purely Accidental that feigns one’s Internal Surprise (I surmise). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------àas if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. Thus, the Aim is to perfect an Accusation as an Extension of self/in the (obscene) Arena in which “I threw myself/in.” (obscenely). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground---------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say-------àHead, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus--------------------> fuck it: The Recollection of Fragments mymymy when you get older things get out of/in Hand & then you just get fucking (porn) pummeled. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). It’s a cold (cold) World behind us & it’s a (cold) cold World before us thus-------------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------àas if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground-----------àI see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). Uncrossing your legs with my eyes, clearly this is to Coerce the Heart (let me Map this out). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->Head, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & suddenly, your Smile grows hidden corners (I corner). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say-------àHead, on the Floor, defines this (is) Space. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. Which began the recounting of The Body, because there was nothing more vulgar to say------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground-----------àI see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. The Tender Slope of the Chin & then (eyes) up against the ass. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). The memory of a Sexual Encounter creeping along the Edges that might tear us right on through The Body through. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. Which would become a (*Beheading) pausing from Room to Room, carrying oneself along an Outline (erases). & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground-----------àI see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,---------------------------------------à>Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->a force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. Our Lives, have become a Simple Straining of a Phrase “to end”. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or--------------> The Intersection of the Tremor & Mr Hungheart. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or----àa force liberating from the Solidity of One’s Being or-------------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>as if a Frozen Globe (*Body) bulging towards a proposition marking Space or---->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground-----------> see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. This is the Special Condition of a (imploding) Landscape------------------------------------------>& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. This Amounts to Forms of Gesture, in which to vaguely sense what her Posture is conveying to me. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. It only makes Sense when we point the Body (face) in the Southbound down, Baby, (we’re) going down. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. But it’s in the Morning in which we (are terrified to) remember. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder---------.>as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. As if, to Sleep together or, to wash out the Flowering of our Imbalance. To Merge & become a Half-Presence. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,--------------------------------------->Each Dawn without Language is Blessed. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->I see, everything in close/is. Closing in/to the Body/is or,---------------------------------------> & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. In which we were so surely Fucked & Intimately run into the Ground----------->& so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->as if, the City confirmed this, upon the boom at the End of the Street. & so it goes. Two Heads point the Way towards a Hole, reasoning the Convulsing that ensues would be one of Wonder--------->& so it goes.