Hyper-activity combined with anything is enough to make anyone anxious. Some combinations need to come before they go, they need to dislocate, they need to reassure, they need to settle in the plateau of history, imagination: stories, nights, darknesses, endings like nerve-endings, spinning motions, peace. And when the untied mass of knots find their resolution; thereupon gets relieved the thoughts that were before so hyped up into a corner of some incorrect combination, incorrect and anxious.
Leave a pause for the momentum somewhere to increase the moment to increase somewhere, the pause, left.
Because I think I dream I believe the music is good. Somewhere behind the wave forms-literally that funnel-literary into one’s daily activity, comes like a creative reckoning the sensation of something a little more fizzing on the ends and the beginnings of one’s fingertips, the fingertip ones, of one’s stories, the story ones.
Good is the music. Great is the music. Great is the point where your body stops movings sos quicklys and starts to slur, the music. Come gladly the music, like a procession, like a mould, the nerves they feel at home, faraway. Music you music, you sound you sound, so soft, so silly to call it such a thing when it’s such a sounds so silly, sounds so silly, something inside me, silly.
They aren’t riddles. Those refrains. We aren’t refrains, the composers, the listeners – something stops, something starts – the rhythm of the refrains is more than just a refrain, a kind of contentedness refrains – that rhythms, you know, not riddles.
We learn to the word art like we do to each other.
I learn to the word art like we do to each other.
You learn to the word art like we do to each other.
Sentences, like songs
Sound good, go
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