Let it be good to yourself
The exorcism of Wu-tang mountain jam jam jam jam flow elsewhere woke up in my subtle tokenism with a casual urge to conquer all sufferers disguised as ourselves
Masters of running clubs nightclubs private temples Booker Little sound valves , apostles but
Nigga you still ain't mysterious (I mean, abstract) Massah I mean messiah be mean to his own true style just to get a good trap on the capital
So it was fun, to be in the future
Inanimate dancer some surly clouds overhead like mammy robot arms / O Oprah, what have you done
to the future, what have you done to the suburbs they're underneath her like layer cakes or tourists rubbing a brass actor buddha/ high speed dubbed to wu-tang discussions , what have you done to the rappers distracted children of Japanese immersion gives him the chills when you give away cars
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Ritual In the keeping of soul in tact there are neurotic repetitive magics that show up as disdain for the outside world a hidden language so busy it cannot communicate. I think our double icons (devil/god/ cons) are the purveyors of that speech and their ritual is to fall victim to the ambivalence as proof of the eternal worthlessness of struggle. Struggle is just a mode of production superior to carelessness , inferior to terror maybe. All is full of love this way, by a strange default we join under : transcendence. The water of our tendencies. And the ritual of checking things has its own scene in the arkive. To wake up craving images above even oranges, is a large hybrid of afterlife and unlearned righteousness. It begins feeling imperative to have one subject to wake up to (as) and trust it's image in handcuffs on the internet / to imagine Cornel West has a personal life nothing like the public one is crucial to the survival or ritual
