Even alleged militants blame the vanishing of the summer sea ice on
Ghosts (short version) by Albert Ayler. He disappeared while he was
getting his sound together. No one knows what happened but the water
high in increments like a crown around his cries and glass is a liquid
and you have to forgive your parents for whatever it is and they have to
forgive themselves
I would like to use this craft to fly with him
I feel black the morning after and try-- again--- warm in the habit of our warning and yearning for more of them until
We finally need to see this reckoning
But when it's
time I'm not ready and when I'm ready it's not time-- that's fate. And
blind in the halo of long ago we make it a future
I say, I don't
know who you are. I say, I do it all for you anyways (long run)---
Gorgeous photographs of industrial ruins so lush you want to lick them,
be them, become a trend. Crushed under the debris, an instrument is so
tender it breaks and mends in the same note, becoming men is like that,
degrading, uplifting, denial lazily caving in Isis and ice until all of
our guesses are obsolete we can't see nobody who isn't disappearing
