The Daffodil Pill

Only months otherwise moiré. These edges are a real pain to inflate. All I can say is: feel around under that little bell tower. To propulse oneself is to propose oneself. It is to experience a hike, ready, up to, and furthermore.  A sinister music calls this hard, nebulous diamond, a panacea. An emissary will be present to search the grounds when necessary. You may now send me all your money. You will be reimbursed tomorrow by twelve pancakes and a Mardi Gras. Here’s an egg unless ready while waiting for the overflow. Stand behind that white line. When the gun fires, run as hard as you can toward that big brick wall over there. Break through to the other side. It’s always good to lend yourself to a prodigal roadside attraction based on an understanding of how one conducts oneself in a jellyfish. I’m working on a design suited to the temperature of the water. Doing this is excessive while waiting for it to become metaphorically worn-out. I’m not ready for that. I’m bursting out with that breath you sent. It’s full of metaphors. Moiré. And vertigo.

Since blooming is almost ruby ​​although it’s splashing, let me greet you on the outside of this periphery and welcome you to the puzzle that is stretched nylon. Think of it as an underlying craft, raw and geometric. Or you can go beyond all the natural airwaves and find an allegory transcending thought. Learn to sew. Pick a thread. Choose a deadwood. Provide a library for the palm, and a punctuation for the fire escape. Jump into your fingers and collide with something poignant. Either scrap metal or a scientific drawer. The trickiest decisions are chestnuts. So, plow or hornet, search until you groan, and carry a fire alarm. Use your eyes to adore the chaos of your existence. Every day is a fable. Here is Bob Dylan warning everyone to open a gate. He looks worn. We could all use a vacation. Sometimes, that's all there is to it. Vacate. Depart. Dissolve. Sometimes the best solution is a solution. Wishing wells are for fools. The wise use cash. Learn to imply things. Inflate your vespa with semiotics. Oil your bananas hard, against the ribbon, where it smokes.

It’s hard to see, especially during the day. You know. The small one is all fields and shadows. But the big one is totally Toledo. Each window is a washing machine. Each door is its own skin. Give a salute to everything that running dares to inspire. I finally had to admit that Patti Smith could sing. The mayor gave me a donkey. But the janitor gave me an entire history. You will find it where the shadows are frozen and your birth is metal. It’s dazzling in a gerund. I struggle with chrome every day. I want to make a paper god for the arena. Can you keep a secret? I can’t either. I’m just some office lipstick without a plum. I can pull it until its apricot, but that won’t solve the rodeo. I've been rosily chapped ever since setting the chalk on fire. Ultimately, it all comes down to pills. The blue one ends the story. You wake up in bed and believe whatever they want you to believe. The red one offers the unvarnished truth. The black one means adopting a deep, fatalistic, and nihilistic worldview. The lavender one is for listening to Miles Davis. The burnt sienna one is raw with horseplay. The white ones are religious. You can play with reality all day like this if you use the right words. Use the wrong words, and no one will like you. You’ll be accused of all sorts of things. Misspelling. Misdirection. Wantonness. Cognizance. Hypostasis. Self-consciousness. You name it. I recommend the daffodil pill. It has a kite.

We were wrong. The last hours of the dinosaurs were worse than we thought. But let’s leave that for another day. Think, instead, of the Kelvin Wave, a warm-water surge that travels beneath the ocean surface rather than crashing on a beach. It’s the ultimate poem, a metaphor traveling stealthily through the unconscious and emerging in the mind not as a pressure but a treasure of transformative beauty. It's a feeling that becomes a tone, a moment that can be described as the appearance of cracks in an old wall, and which arouses an endless chain of molecular Beehoven. On sees time in knots, or anything else, whatever happens in the middle of words. This could be anything that drifts through a reverie like the perfumes of Honduras. It inspires the splendid mechanism of constellations in a planetarium of the mind to fold space into bizarre shapes, little sea friends whose tickles are a blessing, and whose forms awaken various uses when the idioms we choose to serve break the mailbox, and stumble forward into the realms of humankind, batting at habitudes.

In Mozart’s A Little Night Music, the sensation of mass is sublimated in the string section. It’s enough just to put up with futility in our day-to-day survival. It’s a leap into the void to think that the slower the rock the easier it becomes to build a new altitude. The same framework applies to the spine. Everyone loves a mimosa. But who gives a damn about a mustard seed in a time of endless wandering? For the time being, simply having the genitals to walk around with is quite enough to appease one’s inner turmoil. It's the rolling motions, the sound of scrapbooks opening and closing, because the ocean is right there, and it makes you want everything to sparkle with fine particles and big ideas. When was the last time you listened closely to the conversations of drunks in a cocktail lounge? No language was ever destined to collapse into obscurity. That is why the machinery of the poem played out yesterday in someone's mouth, and gave birth to Chet Baker.