How many warnings taken as possible lies
shall we dare, if
first time, we were right?
Feel it? You know?
Not dying when, you know,
you could have, you know what dying is,
and
this
feeling,
that's life. Wanna risk it? What if we agree,
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us. In the most
straight-forward intuitive way you comprehend:
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us.
Virtually impossible to let such an idea free,
safely.
I'm good, three score and ten plus a few extended
journeys through
history and myth at the speed of thought
brings us here, just short of where we'd have met
in the final analysis
which
takes ever and a day
during which passings of times we breathe,
peacefully.
we troublers of our own house,
heirs of the wind and all its
princely powers,
subject
to right use, our
bhering
clear answers, affirming ever
oboroborobo oboe riffs on electric bass\
backed by Feynman pounding Djembe
drums through NAND
gates tittling jots of
rythmic swirls
in
backward 720s, time
and again,
as Sisyphus
ever rolls, happishly,
random
rocks,
laughing at jour yoke of yesteryears job titles.
Our final task, in every mortal moment,
breathe peace, and pass on.
Or that's my plan. Y'think it'll fly?
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 7:51 PM UTC
How many warnings taken as possible lies
shall we dare, if
first time, we were right?
Feel it? You know?
Not dying when, you know,
you could have, you know what dying is,
and
this
feeling,
that's life. Wanna risk it? What if we agree,
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us. In the most
straight-forward intuitive way you comprehend:
whatever we imagine is possible,
together, nothing can defeat us.
Virtually impossible to let such an idea free,
safely.
I'm good, three score and ten plus a few extended
journeys through
history and myth at the speed of thought
brings us here, just short of where we'd have met
in the final analysis
which
takes ever and a day
during which passings of times we breathe,
peacefully.
we troublers of our own house,
heirs of the wind and all its
princely powers,
subject
to right use, our
bhering
clear answers, affirming ever
oboroborobo oboe riffs on electric bass\
backed by Feynman pounding Djembe
drums through NAND
gates tittling jots of
rythmic swirls
in
backward 720s, time
and again,
as Sisyphus
ever rolls, happishly,
random
rocks,
laughing at jour yoke of yesteryears job titles.
Our final task, in every mortal moment,
breathe peace, and pass on.
Or that's my plan. Y'think it'll fly?
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