}}}}}}}}}{{{{{{{{{{
}M A N I F E S T O{
}}}}}}}}}}}}{{{{{{{
dashes and dots multiplying into space
sometimes dashes are infinite bars seen dead on from their shortest side
dots are mostly semantic cross-sections, they don’t exist in the next moment
time is subsumed into meaning
those who consider in linear fashion have their own shape of depth... also an infinite prism
my mind is buried outward in pulse
ideas come closer as shapes and retract as rhythm
the body is a miniscule agreement of the mind
it breathes
corporeal worlds rest the mind
the mind gets so obsessed with modulation
they lose awareness tweaking their knobs
they find beauty in the delusion of action
they loops into a self
all that we perceive in the corporeal world could be other selves obsessed with this find, the delusion of being
selfs churn complexities from drawing plans for time
even life can happen in a mind
an idea even more brutal than the self
life tries to recall, shapes time as an ever fleeting point
loops of obsession of ends that forget they want to meet
an absurdly easy learning is that loops/circles/spirals/dashes/dots can all be registries of the same
aging is relative to sampling rate
and off I go
decanting through dance
shaking these stones that are bones to a grind
powder stuck in the red water goo
my mind can get this dust out
a bag of meat and a bag of dirt and a bag of air and a shape filled with negative space are the registries of the same
objects and space and music and time and speed and waves and action and peace are the same
digital love was
unflattened mirrors smithed of bent shadows
lust gives the best tells
they’re threaded to speed and I can grab their ropes
its not grease its dust wet with time
hold on harder
a yank a pull a drop a press its the same
love is negative acceleration of sampling rate
but then is it? samples seem higher resolution
hold on harder
come to me
your nails, they were never there
there is no pain
hold on with your soul
do not accept glues
shapeshifters is all there ever is
speed not direction
also slices are chops are nothing
music can be it all if you’ve learnt to swim
don’t practice life in pools
we’re already vast virtual spaces
death by pool is pretty as long as its not in one of those american ones rid of all roughness
in the dream I’m falling flat like a basejumper
the forces align my clavicle to strike the stone lip first
a straight edge will makes a bruised line that also meets my left hip; the body stops metabolizing after this diagonal crunch. Heart and stomach sandwich
the mind forgot this obsession with linear time and bodies and sampling rates and stacked ideas of sustenance for not me
obsessed with this shape
in the name of the father and of the sun
glory is not for the spirit
trust me its for the gelatinous part of the dick
no peace to the dancers
slow music for them
please
for them to rattle the wounds cut by it
by the math
the straight lying blade of math
and shapes
and velocities
please
dancers
please forget this lie
chopping or slicing time in action
chopping and action and time and slicing
its the same
there are no shapes
I am was not the movement
stone bags that fly and stomp do crumble but the dust
the dust that catches lies in cloth is another rag cradling another stone
its the same
the line that runs under
larded knots of which massage your feet
it is a greased rope and their is no dust of life on it
not in any relevance at least
despair