messages from above the lampposts 1
here me out because the answers are there, and they are this: we don’t know who we’ve become these last bits of years, but, my oh my, the almighty of the almighty, I can tell you for certain that we will find ourselves anew, basked in the grit and grime of an evil halo circling the moon, or perhaps the distant gong of a morning to come, or even in the embrace of a smoking woman. we can eclipse ourselves, certainly, but if we take away all of our teeth and rattle like radios, we become something entirely new. there is no hope but there is no dread but there is no fright but there is no life but there is no wooden seahorse child child happy room but there is no balloon in the belfry of blood but there is no nonsense woman chattering the sidewalk with an empty baby stroller full of old sardine cans but there is no no no no no nononnon.
listen, because the answer is this: those who are to power what light is to an empty broom closet, can overtly string an avenue of piano wire and hope for the right people to come along and vibrate in sync with the never ending dada so we can become undone in spite of all our exact measurements. I am nothing if not nothing, and you are the large unknown area that is just behind the sun. we are as the titans of yesterday come anew to trip fantastic in the disco; or something.
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