Chala ek aur parinda hawa ki jhonk me,
Anjan un uchaiyo se ,
Anjan apni manjil se,
bahar apni pinjodo se,
Dur apni ghoslo se,
Andekhi rasta me udhan lena chala,
Pehla pank fadfadne chala,
Unchaio ko chakne chala.

Fariyad hai tumse,
Pyaar ko mere bhul na Jana,
Reham ke tarajo Mei pyaar ko,
Mere tol na Jana.
Fariyad hai tumse,
Dekh mere aankho mein aasu,
Samaj mujhe kamjor,
Sahare ke liye taras kha Kar ,
Aage apna haath mat badana

Fariyad hai tumse,
Pyaar ko mere bhoj na samajna ,
Tumhare kande ka bhaar nahi pank ,
Bana chahti hu.

Fariyad hai tumse,
Mujhe bhul na Jana,
Umeed toh nahi hai,
Par ** sake toh vapas laut aana.

how heavy the heart:
on an otherwise empty mind.

i really should think something more,
should i?

it's called experiencing a hangover
   after having ingested too much
science.

i get that a lot...
     the cool crowd wears gucci,
and the cool crowd wears
   atheism, as if they don't have
limbs, and are merely brains
    in pickle jars...

but hey! my hands are up!
i'v succumbed to the plague
of *adam & the ants with:
a nervous trill of: stand! and deliver!
which is very much akin to
the fashonista circumstance
with donning red and leather,
and whenever:
     it didn't happen in romford...
adam and the ants
   like a cold war cultural exchange
        project
making them akin to lady pank
and that rough recording via
mniej niż zero (less than zero)...
what, people party!
i see russia as: fertile ground worthy
of being explored...
      cheap sound, and the less cheaper
lives in the west-world...
come... we can be more scandinavian
with that ż writing ƶ instead.
  the best analogy concerning me
is already presented with the imagery...
   the angry microbot from
big hero 6...
            and i'm always bound to return,
fuse with the grey matter...
you have no idea about the reality of
being ethnically, well... technically: homeless.
i'm already a homeless artifact...
     i don't know why i want to
merge with the crowd,
  i guess i only thought about
unlearning the english language...
  
and you really can read a philosophy
book like doing mathematical rubrics
of arithmetic,
but unlike 1 + 1 = 2,
i can't make it as simple to suggest
that i + think = happening, being, or i am,
when there's this ergo octopus
that say otherwise...
   reading these books is unlike doing basic
mathematical yoga / stretches...
  i never know what σ i am to arrive at...
it's never a stable sum...
     it's easier to state 1 + 1 = 2
than to state a:
  you should do that,
   which extends into someone using their
body and faking a mind
      and actually doing it so that you can
waste your time before a television set...
   and be called a vegetable...
    couching...
            
it's painfully obvious that people have
an aversion to philosophy,
because there seems to be nothing about it
to equate to the systematic acceptance of
psychological systems of therapy,
the pain is that: thought should be the sole
therapeutic stance... odd, i know:
just, thinking about it
   away from the moral dimension of
making choices that magnetises thought
away from narrative...
  and how not many Tolstoys emerged since
writing war & peace...

but unlike dealing with numbers,
   we are oh so more disposed to remember
a set of combinations for 26 digits
      than we are remembering
the many combinations
involving only 10 digits (0 - 9)...
         wow... for the first time, i am actually
awe-numbed...
              but philosophy books do that to you,
and there's also that much necessary
computer analogy,
   the dark web being akin to
   the grammar circus...
to write a basic 1 + 1 = 2 with words
   can't be reached so suddenly,
it took Descartes and a human history
worthy of a 17th century...
            
which is why we have this fascination
    with mathematics
being wholly optic investigations,
    and wording things requires
feeling and cannot be
pure optic...
           how could the two systems
ever converge?
would i say 1 + 1 = 2
            in the same way as i might say
a + b + b + o + t = abbot
    or i + am + an + abbot = a + church?
mathematical language is too definite...
  it's what we say: when human interactions
are reduced to
    the basic human interaction
of asking for directions, or buying whiskey...
  
but when did we really begin
to want the two mediums
to converge?
   primarily when we took to writing ♪, ♫...
    
given ♪, ♫, there's no point
treating the two otherwise
comprehensive systems of encoding
          to be worth
a marriage that could ever consolidate itself
with punctuation marks (, . ; : - etc.)
and operation marks (+ - x ÷ √)...

   or, cf. heidegger aphorism no. 167...
how the style of aphorism encourages
writing something
in between... in the least:
               something akin to this...

quiet frankly, some call it chance
   and the odd padlina, well, a corpse...
you wait for these vulture moments
and hover over a sudden waggle of the tongue.
                    
so who could argue...
                 so much of our feelings' narrative
doesn't translate into the mind's,
within the framework of being, of consciousness,
of the unconscious...
most of our heart's narrative is likely unconscious,
as incomprehensible as a dream...
    and if this is but a myth,
then the only alternative is that is speaks
a language of auto, automatic...
                so how heavy it must be to have a heart
that cannot be translated into a narrative
of the head...
        how we're naturally **** schizoi
rather than **** sapiens...
         i said it over and over again:
i'll turn the authenticity of schizophrenia
on its head... i'll apply a groundwork of using
only one tool: metaphor to prescribe humanity with
a much more reasonable account of itself...
     given that, democratically speaking,
we cannot account for a plateau of sanity,
and a coherent circumstance of reasonableness.
    some peoplke thought that solipsism was
a medical condition rather than a theory,
others said: dualism and the shadow of dichotomy...
otherwise merely wrote a sleeping 8: ∞.

*how heavy the heart:
on an otherwise empty mind...
      
            and how the mind compensates
the lightness of having a heart
with so many theories and theoretical
promenades...

           and how unto man thus given:
a desire of reclaiming a heavy heart once more;

alas, no "leisure" activities bound to the fields of
  a bachelor status...
         run a mile as a man solo...
walk to the local shop as a man with a ring of
monogamous status...
      
i guess the problem can be solved by a simple
answer...
   do you like drinking alone?

yes, yes i do.

    that's a joke, to be honest,
how heavy the heart: with a mind filled by too
much contemplation...
the bearable lightness of being...
           a revision of Kundera...

       could it possibly be paradoxical?
well... not unless it's taken as a fleeting pass.

so...
   corey hart...

sunglasses at night...

became the gob,
the mouthpiece,
to this i was a "maggot" of...

ha ha, who said there were
no ++++ signs for being
angry...

      liberate,
sic,
        oh, right...
        stone sour's
get inside...
the unrepenting
norse overlord mantra
of being pulverised...

fun... fun...
   **** is kinda of "hard"...
when you haven't been
"un"circumcised...
            farting into a leather
chair seemingly smelling
a bit like the whole of iowa,
or a pepsi cola...
fun as ****...
  y'ah...

              you leave me to my own affairs,
i'll scuttle with that army of
cockroaches you so desperately fear...
we need the fear,
fear is useful,
     north korean marching orders...
less pomp...
but more "invisible" circumstances,
matched...

grow a beard,
and then...
find the itchy pin-point...
to scratch an "endeavour"...
rather than succumb to
pretend-scribbling some graffiti...
on a red hot chilli
overpass...

      ****, i gave my ability to
read braille,
for the part of being able,
to play under the bridge,
with a numbed set of finger-tips...
unlike Samuel...
i never sat on my *******
hand, yes, under my ***...
for the liberating experience
of a ghost / numbed hand
while doing the one eyed
monkey "clue"...

         Samuel...
  RM1 night-club...
             underage drinking,
not getting laid...
mohawks,
      hair oil,
     greg tibbett hairstyles
from the debute album...
walking back to Ilford,
missing countless night-bus
86 routes...
singing Backstreet Boys
songs...
he had older sisters...
i had...
phantoms...
            i love that name though,
Samuel...
  it like the pair of names
i was given, and never bothered to
make a complaint...
both hebrew (matthew)
and germanic (conrad)...
******* giggles...

i can't forget Samuel...
    to sit on your **** arm...
to the point of numb,
and then implicating a ****...
genious, or what?

            EA / AD
        pluck of the strings...
when it comes
to smoke on the water?
   i never know which pair...
strum, no strum...
the *****, the audacity,
of the bass player in a band,
to somehow hush,
what, a band, akin to Metallica
could never do,
requiring the revision
of the rhythm guitar (/ vocals)...
not the drums though...
ergo?
     we don't need no education,
we don't need no thought control...
see...
  bass balanced with
the drums,
bass guitar,
   readied, welcoming
the inheritence from jazz...
no simply rhythm guitar
*******...
     welcome....

and just before punk would rob
me...
came uncle,
came the cure and depeche mode...
and all that contraband "jazz"...
then some schumann,
then some prokofiev
              (lt. kije, romance),
then some marylin monroe...
then some: roses of europe...
then some lady pank...
then some 1950s technicolour
movies, éclair sweets...
          what's that

      noun! ****!

                   associated with
1950s technicolour of movies...
akin to éclair...
   oil painting "etiquette"...
   no... not eclectic...
      fudge,
fudge,
that's what i'm left with...

         éclair: but not, éclair...
eclectic, and certainly, not eclectic...
associated with 1950s
hollywood, technicolor...
     and oil-painting preceding it...
not the 1970s grit realism
of film...
    the whole... "cartoonish"
transformation from
b & w...

              see... this is what
a crossword looks like:
in reverse...
              i can't solve crosswords
to save my own ***...
all that remains is...
something, akin to,

                                  this.