When the tilt comes to fall, one mind endeavours upon another mind and makes it up on the spot there and then. One day made up its mind and night scurried onwards in the background.
This is all about finding people and their hearts in greyscale here, with those pictures.
The combination of these sentences, all fairly oblique in size, with a space between them, and the greyscale pictures; may be enough to suffice a fulfilling place to return to, next time logged in.
Have I ever considered the scale of possibilities that there’s someone else, out there, being given a diagnosis that could be given to myself ME? Defines a diagnosis alike.
And hears that diagnosis the same. And receives that diagnosis from the same sort of place. And tells others about that diagnosis in the same sort of way, if at all.
When to work, one could imagine, on a bus; imagining a world or a word which would be better remembered than forgotten, which would be better worked for too.
The silence before and after that thought, the silence of a middle ground, a borderland, a place like now, to be returned to and logged in.
Unto the two songs and pictures and people I’ve got here that capture the above thoughts with faint indy. Transit words for heart strings. A label for drums and rum drinks. A cigarette for un irritating and kind afternoon sun, accompanied with the thought of an ale or a cider or somewhere on the edge of Eng UK SEA; away from the cafeteria tray-arguments, away from the boring pretence of inane boredom and slogans on your roads, SLOW, oh fuck it, that stale stench of fuck on the medium town streets. And then the window that it all leads up to, the evening grey, the seeming arrAYY, “straight from the heart, to show you the -”
Take the p out of the place
And tie a bow, in it, around; a delivery
Post it in the right place, with the correct word/world attached.
Here, I guess. greyscale