To control himself he turned on the radio. He felt that he had a glorious victory locked in his heart. He stooped and flung some stolen diamonds more evenly over the floor and they showered rich sparks, collaborating with him. He had a glorious victory locked in his heart he felt that. I have become more militant, because the time is right. He reminded himself. I have become more time. Militancy reminded him of a joy unwinding as a boyhood unwilling to leave for noise is easier to imagine forward in the omnivorous span of itself, getting closer to itself but too near to touch-- it is the balmy young camera in the early clash with image and broke the rivalry into value and them both into hope for the conversation on earth and then we negotiated and then went looting and that sounded broken into togetherness, andthenagain am I blue, you'd be too. To control himself he turned through the radio. A bloom of tunnels. He wore his pants low and had to scoot around like a radio dial from place to place to pose to (I'll) wait for you and he felt a glorious victory locked in his speed. A swollen limbo. Interaction has become a way to create silence, for me and him. We film a still radio by day. At night we watch the footage and discuss a road it isn't on and how come
