Ravishment. As if reality is innocence but innocence is vacant, bleeds the casual toxicity of our everyday machines seeing the presence of a color in a detached way and the lazy rake of reaping and sowing it into the break between me and the seen-said color with ease and a sailor, with red curtain knees. Don't be sad. Be the the color of it in a practice, for the exact neighborhood of muses you came to get at and resist, paint the house the technical sheer of 'words don't go here--' To be smooth you have to be repetitive so I'm choosing a new festival, of lights on water, a renaissance bouncing, empty package of Newports on the Metropolitan floor crumpled like the hand they were in making me cringe with delight and amnesty and ascent and glad it ain't me-- mint condition innocence is a real problem if you can't dismantle the agent and remain it, I'd give it back to you in a detached way but you can't handle that too free my mind is without it. At night you hide between the speakers and smoke something that makes me reel again, it aches at first, a crippling purity, then it phases into the safe neighborhood like a Doctor Dre lyric in the middle of the desert, leaving itself alone
