El Egg

Yelling in sputters. It shouldn't have been an illusion to fork unconditionally. A nation that has the nerve to howl only after, always after. The enemy is what boasts itself as training. I would prefer not to submit my work for approval. A proven hell. That there should be a remainder that is the unthought of thought, an image forming of a new image of thought, becoming a force of the fifth dimension, the difference of forces neither seeking nor reaching equilibrium or obliteration. The sensuous underside of the thing itself thought of and not with. The aesthetic underpinnings of a philosophical corset. That there should be flying carpets to service those virtual spaces where thoughts unlace in trajectories of disorder. To lift imagination up again from those prone to the thickness of madness. What is performed is that very undifferentiation. It might all seem a blur and only cohere in a place that is become absolutely other, where the mind widens and attaches to blinks in the chatter. And more meaningful for what it must necessarily fight against. A bad till to the debt. Standing in the sunlight and yet not understanding. A rift opens and to drift there. Yours, fractally. Imagination enables by disabling other states. Consciousness is the private dick trailing the unconscious. But without those detailings striped across the back of our prey, we would be left in the goop of mysticism. Twins activate oceans, a form of force. Shins and sutures, conned etchings, links to think on, of, over. What to make of the production of stencils. There must be more to it than just being sent the formatting, a loophole in use. Sense. Template. Contemplate. Eyes suddenly thirsty. Helping more or less to do things less fiercely. Coded signs of fits and starts. Fortress of adamant krill. The billowing appositives. Unsex the herky gems. We are in consciousness: stages of it, broken statues, reversals. Wearing metaphorical duds we dissemble unsightly escapes from the resonances of privacy.