Acts 4:32
themes entwine; harpsichord strings snap me out of midnight’s highway trance, and I am a new lens for fear- fire- focus; the forces blanket rafts of new-wrought earth with snow, right onto the auburn grasses of steel, to snap off their stems with cold, to plant new cords on the dust of rusted nebulae. (Stutter grace notes, botox lips on stammering tongues)
things in common; this is the power; brutalities of silver monkeys dancing in the trees, we laid it at the feet of authority, but it is exegesis that holds us together, at least according to Pravda, and W. This is what we need, the bang, the whimper, the shuttlecock, the gold-flavored hen of tomorrow’s fad consumed conveyed relayed years before she was even thought of, because it’s the archetype, stupid, of an information ecology.