Architectone Moderato
Dear [replacement] Diary,
I would like to make a slew of curious statements quickly; pray bear with these efforting helices; and bring your density and gradients along with their eyes.
I still don't know your name but consider a sacred annealment tangible. In the city I stride alongside solution's haunting. Yours is a thirst only this denatured drink offers itself to. So, I inhabit this radio of clime, careful of the static gaps.
The fragmenting of this theme [Dear Diary] into its own motives may soon suffer momentum’s pitch, but will you help me commend creation for knowing its architecture: For putting up angles of calculated surprise, and importing us in edificial quatities of sleep. Each testimony, is both regional and virtual. So you are not a love letter, but I love the elemental functionality of our zigzagging model. Together we object to X-ray. Thankfully, we were born without mechanical regulation of our registers. Both ours. I am pressed inward, also I am impressed, to stand like a nerve statue and bevel away at my nature. Under this very frontispiece hung here: we may hang over in a primal dance. I know I should not embellish what gypsy I am not, as if I could. Sorry, but I know how charming little tunes divine. Can you come out here in a year?
In response to your metonymic letters, my voice is a challenging antique. An item that may auctioneer for less than a buck or more. It gathers itself by way of introduction, and bouquets like a fist. Stops here. Segments of my motives lead to new impetuous dissentions, and segments fantasize: the pink bowls in your body full of patriotic milk; the life of your hot tongue leaning tired against its teeth. Sum of button and which to push: How I am beleivably ignored. The more timid locations in the imagination struggle to harmonize two things (sweet and graceful). Higher Organisms? Say hello. And then? Precisely midway between the heart and the head: a category is born. Brand new. I am told things afterward, that don't help much. But the succesful synthesis of vital inspirations ensures the number of (two) are afforded a correct placing on the messenger template. Category (answer) or no (receipt).
The allegory for which has not been written?
Is art working too hard? Send him home, and his luggage.
It occurs that in art worked too hard it is said we inhabit hell. In diligence we might avoid ourselves and miss hell. Hell lives in lazy art to which it is impossible to fasten your attention. Please, please. Can we avoid false virtuosity and embrace a purposeless brilliance? Regardless of more general things (genetics and stereos); our temple is more than a vogue movement. Less than: a primitive horn made of the noise itself. O, I almost forgot our neighbors of the hay; tell them battled antiques dream in droves. Caricatures of rust and want; but I miss them too often.
What is brand new; as is when; and where; and how. But who is brand new? You wrote: Announce your lyric little Put; step to the front-of-the-beat. And: Which aspect of music composes in you vertically? Sway, sway…you sway. The mountain speaks in your favor. I am confident in the new category’s music, and promise to come round.
Do you remember Jacob of Leigé of the fourteenth century? He thought music had become “lascivious beyond measure.” When I think of him I see sheets of arabesques catching fire in a pauper’s house. I think of our old school. The dirt floors. Yes I am referring to the remote past. Sweet modes, good mode, thank you (same as now.) It injects me with a subtle warfare and helps maintain my mood of well-being.
In your absence I am affected by physical achievement, tonics of simile, some method I am creating under wraps. I hope I am capable of determining your uniqueness among the fray. Otherwise I live in a nightmare attempting to resemble your murder. Mind, I am watching after you, and you mustn’t but you will fret, even though I dwell here willingly. My post is set on the point you have marked with your fraction. Have you born witness to the scale of these walls? Lately. With my temperature pitched by fever, reflection proves a mandatory exercise. The walls are fairly built, and measure themselves: note by note. I sway to God on my mother. Come, come.
Without you I will feel crass and obvious. Too obvious. I would rather surmise a doctrine of affections, and mirror what is vivid. Much rather. Sincerely, struggling. Nothing to panic about, I just know.
p.s. I have enclosed a reasonable religion I have no room for in my workspace. Hide it from me. I trust you will tell no-one you know.
I would like to make a slew of curious statements quickly; pray bear with these efforting helices; and bring your density and gradients along with their eyes.
I still don't know your name but consider a sacred annealment tangible. In the city I stride alongside solution's haunting. Yours is a thirst only this denatured drink offers itself to. So, I inhabit this radio of clime, careful of the static gaps.
The fragmenting of this theme [Dear Diary] into its own motives may soon suffer momentum’s pitch, but will you help me commend creation for knowing its architecture: For putting up angles of calculated surprise, and importing us in edificial quatities of sleep. Each testimony, is both regional and virtual. So you are not a love letter, but I love the elemental functionality of our zigzagging model. Together we object to X-ray. Thankfully, we were born without mechanical regulation of our registers. Both ours. I am pressed inward, also I am impressed, to stand like a nerve statue and bevel away at my nature. Under this very frontispiece hung here: we may hang over in a primal dance. I know I should not embellish what gypsy I am not, as if I could. Sorry, but I know how charming little tunes divine. Can you come out here in a year?
In response to your metonymic letters, my voice is a challenging antique. An item that may auctioneer for less than a buck or more. It gathers itself by way of introduction, and bouquets like a fist. Stops here. Segments of my motives lead to new impetuous dissentions, and segments fantasize: the pink bowls in your body full of patriotic milk; the life of your hot tongue leaning tired against its teeth. Sum of button and which to push: How I am beleivably ignored. The more timid locations in the imagination struggle to harmonize two things (sweet and graceful). Higher Organisms? Say hello. And then? Precisely midway between the heart and the head: a category is born. Brand new. I am told things afterward, that don't help much. But the succesful synthesis of vital inspirations ensures the number of (two) are afforded a correct placing on the messenger template. Category (answer) or no (receipt).
The allegory for which has not been written?
Is art working too hard? Send him home, and his luggage.
It occurs that in art worked too hard it is said we inhabit hell. In diligence we might avoid ourselves and miss hell. Hell lives in lazy art to which it is impossible to fasten your attention. Please, please. Can we avoid false virtuosity and embrace a purposeless brilliance? Regardless of more general things (genetics and stereos); our temple is more than a vogue movement. Less than: a primitive horn made of the noise itself. O, I almost forgot our neighbors of the hay; tell them battled antiques dream in droves. Caricatures of rust and want; but I miss them too often.
What is brand new; as is when; and where; and how. But who is brand new? You wrote: Announce your lyric little Put; step to the front-of-the-beat. And: Which aspect of music composes in you vertically? Sway, sway…you sway. The mountain speaks in your favor. I am confident in the new category’s music, and promise to come round.
Do you remember Jacob of Leigé of the fourteenth century? He thought music had become “lascivious beyond measure.” When I think of him I see sheets of arabesques catching fire in a pauper’s house. I think of our old school. The dirt floors. Yes I am referring to the remote past. Sweet modes, good mode, thank you (same as now.) It injects me with a subtle warfare and helps maintain my mood of well-being.
In your absence I am affected by physical achievement, tonics of simile, some method I am creating under wraps. I hope I am capable of determining your uniqueness among the fray. Otherwise I live in a nightmare attempting to resemble your murder. Mind, I am watching after you, and you mustn’t but you will fret, even though I dwell here willingly. My post is set on the point you have marked with your fraction. Have you born witness to the scale of these walls? Lately. With my temperature pitched by fever, reflection proves a mandatory exercise. The walls are fairly built, and measure themselves: note by note. I sway to God on my mother. Come, come.
Without you I will feel crass and obvious. Too obvious. I would rather surmise a doctrine of affections, and mirror what is vivid. Much rather. Sincerely, struggling. Nothing to panic about, I just know.
p.s. I have enclosed a reasonable religion I have no room for in my workspace. Hide it from me. I trust you will tell no-one you know.
posted by name at 2:59:00 PM
2 Comments:
aims, as i've stated already, these are flooring my little reading posture 'til i'm a poster of me reading...
i prefer the ones that are more epistle-ish than the numbered ones, which seem less intimately connected to an addressee.
just a thought.
warmly.
It must not be clear that the numbered pieces are not intended for the addressee, but are outlines of how to approach the dismantlement of whatever intended addressee, or the forthcoming epistles which may or may not be addressed to anyone (they are outlines). Hmmm. I'll have to think on that. I'm glad you are reading along with me. Gracias.
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