At least the Event in its cause-n-affect fabric means buying more records is identifiably distilled within fake identity. Any feeling of mass is so strange and thrilling that I ran frantically but stopped when I saw myself running without direct purpose and contact with others.
Smooth fingers are so seriously inappropriate that I start to see why the capital depends more on fluid music and cuticle cream than anything else. Softened the other day to the idea of bars not being directly something to avoid when the floating suspension of belief that is comforting womanhood is concerned. A certain degree of either evil wool or silkiness is required if only for the compromised act of man’s promised community. A painfully repentant must. Mirror music is interesting here. Forget deconstructing your own success under the great shining stars of the glass sky scraper, even when noticing one’s little brothers still cleaning inside it, like thoughts of a giant penis. Say nothing. Make light, pronunciation, foreign food or compromise for the senses’ sake whilst in the precious mood. Everything mindful must be suspended for things to flow no matter what the consequence…
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