The thing about this level of song is that you have to pay attention to the resting places- it matters- and you can land or not land in very smart or stupid places. One stupid place is only made white & illuminated, but wrong-looking by crashing brainwise back through. You can get carried away...
Barnabas wears his cross sweater standing close to the bridge and the train is coming soon. But we all stare at the ground when it is covered in sections of bones and whole bones. Like this. Like this. In piles. All distracted. The train smashed Barnabas through, who was, of course, recording it. His body turned white, flashed light. I saw maggots & green slime. She smelled it. We took a break in a fairy gen. The thing about this level of song is that you have got to tae breaks. We talked and documented near Barnabas's last place & we listened back to the recording as the sun went down.
There is a dangerous animal on the loose- we heard the warning- within the recording was a backwards speaking voice which warned our inside ears about him- the dangerous one who hates himself. He is alone by choice- has made a quiet pledge to his white fingernail ends- to remove and to remove and to remove. But he has to make a living. The backwards talking voice warns- "he hates, he is a photographer" and some say the best. He used to arrange the world aspect of his loves into a picture and he would take it, all of his pictures he would take & share. The project included loves, and he loved them. But loves drift & some die. Some loves travel time before they seem ready. Some rot in ponds and bogs. Some loves dedicate their lives...The photographer's all did, and he set up new world aspects. They emptied, he hurt, he hate, there was a duchess, and she left. He turned down.
These are his longing grounds now and we avoid his tracks, that leak tattoo ink and burned skin smells, the places where he flaps and rips his ears. Where he photographs the deadened face that he wears. There are other loves in town who buy the prints and secure their walls by hanging them. They turn the lights down all over town and have gallery openings. The photographer howls outside of them, with his blowtorch. For fuck's sacke, the place burns! Woods people are safe, but the white paint behind the photographs scorches and boils. The phogotrapher cracks open a bottle. The region is his, in haunt and name. Cinder chunks flick against our Volt. We peel out, back to the hills.
To make a modern spill of everymotion? Trying to braid ourselves, well, on Earth...
Barnabas wears his cross sweater standing close to the bridge and the train is coming soon. But we all stare at the ground when it is covered in sections of bones and whole bones. Like this. Like this. In piles. All distracted. The train smashed Barnabas through, who was, of course, recording it. His body turned white, flashed light. I saw maggots & green slime. She smelled it. We took a break in a fairy gen. The thing about this level of song is that you have got to tae breaks. We talked and documented near Barnabas's last place & we listened back to the recording as the sun went down.
There is a dangerous animal on the loose- we heard the warning- within the recording was a backwards speaking voice which warned our inside ears about him- the dangerous one who hates himself. He is alone by choice- has made a quiet pledge to his white fingernail ends- to remove and to remove and to remove. But he has to make a living. The backwards talking voice warns- "he hates, he is a photographer" and some say the best. He used to arrange the world aspect of his loves into a picture and he would take it, all of his pictures he would take & share. The project included loves, and he loved them. But loves drift & some die. Some loves travel time before they seem ready. Some rot in ponds and bogs. Some loves dedicate their lives...The photographer's all did, and he set up new world aspects. They emptied, he hurt, he hate, there was a duchess, and she left. He turned down.
These are his longing grounds now and we avoid his tracks, that leak tattoo ink and burned skin smells, the places where he flaps and rips his ears. Where he photographs the deadened face that he wears. There are other loves in town who buy the prints and secure their walls by hanging them. They turn the lights down all over town and have gallery openings. The photographer howls outside of them, with his blowtorch. For fuck's sacke, the place burns! Woods people are safe, but the white paint behind the photographs scorches and boils. The phogotrapher cracks open a bottle. The region is his, in haunt and name. Cinder chunks flick against our Volt. We peel out, back to the hills.
To make a modern spill of everymotion? Trying to braid ourselves, well, on Earth...
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