They say you're supposed to vote against what you're not, which oddly means to not vote for them. Uknowat, what was I working on...
This was a battle of the strange inferiority complex, the lower-middle class of a system design to prevent classes with classism, to prevent disparity with desperate measures, there'd been this notion of scared and powerless people made faceless by systemic tribalism, and other pop-culture terms ignored by pop-up icons, flourishing in my own insanity with spates of clarity, learning the ways of cats to lick my wounds and pace around the weak and wary, unlike the days between them. And sown on their sleeves hearts of gold, and lost to the streets the covenesses and desperate masses growing younger in the doorways stilln't dry with ochre arches and subtle frames, when will the insanity that I bring come down with a metaphor to close and taste the sweating blood of revolutions without the tears turned to snowflakes and none the wiser careful what they wish for, with the door closing on the last opportunity to wear the crown of stolen gold instead of the bricks in the streets, would they carry their status, would they dress reflecting the stratosphere the mission clear to be numbers counted on a string. I'd worried about writing, that the good can be pushed too far, as it would seem the precursor to some manifesto in mockery to my legacy, whatever that means to you who'd punch mirrors and shout at mountains for being one the other, the staunch ironies of words in parades of tragic misconception and hateful intentions below the heads on mute that more compute with the aching broken fingers of sheet music passing over the notes of time and on that line the misery of trickster potions and blood soaked oceans, some terrible exibition of dictionaries instead of need, when by the weeds of highways after the world has begun the second day of a movie's prophecy you walk or pick the painted roses before the sunset closes and brought is this world to you, that between the books before I read them the misery of insanity impure by the conjectures and poor constructions of the words of wisdom that ask themselves what they think and tell others what they said in place of Jinn in their way, with the moral of the day to slay our giants in our way and only having the one that remains, the insane and insipid thinkers of thoughts that never occur, where wings would feel the skies, where time would fill the eyes, where intimacies would fill the lies, yet this tells too soon to talk about the frustrations and intimidations that conformists will never know, that anarchists will never throw, that communists will never grow, and capitalists will never show, and many more into the undertow of what essays began to write. Yes, that the worst of fates in sunken continents decreed by bards and baileys and forks in roads divergent only one from fates uknown in fiction and in life only sung, in hopes my own commoner theory they are the cliche henchman that is somehow the hero with reactions of zeros for zeros, in random risking random, like work is family and family is work, so much the aristocrats bored of powerless hearts become bloodthirsty for benevolence in a single unidentifiable form, as once called fanatics, as once called sporadic, and that was - last - year not for nothing. I saw statues attacked in the center of homelessness seas, sacred fires to scare out quarry of holy hunters by none other than bounty jumpers, and heads of state appropriate my finest vintage of literary insanity, albeit temporary, albeit a sky-shattering lie, to urge and provoke and stoke and save the charlattane army of anarchists, in the sup with the devil a meal only paired with the equivocations of a programmatic and often insensed ferile whose mind so sterile it lost it's grey matter only to line the curves on the slippery slopes, and I tell you i've never seen so much dishonor like the staple air I still breathe in the waves over my eyes, a counterpart conception of musical deception saved for the static harmonic ring that protects the planet as they virally seed the world assumably despised by contrarian meditations high order and short form, you have given them free seats to your teleprompter show having given them rotten fruit to throw, it was never a good idea to write about something as it happens and show my cards in case they become another story made from theories of games and the same insane manifest destiny of the idiots who'd cast the first stone at the titans instead of swaddles and coddles of decades of stories made to hold libraries on the ground among all the other stories, the social nature of your medium allows you to flip to the end, and the reprisal of satisfaction of human interaction is heaven-sent, as you can look around you, and do not see them in other thoughts of echoes of thought of echoes, only teaching them to march and never where to go, letting them do nothing like an idea in your grasp with each truth breathe, a chessboard in a storm.
Lotta I's.
"Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind; And that which governs me to go about." William Shakespeare
2456-0206