Machines in the Head

thank you for coming in my room, it was a return, you gave me all the jewelry back. thank you that I got on your spinning potter's wheel and turned from formlessness into something. a magnet talisman fell into my hand-box.

what I like, sense of somebody's like a child in art, but art is as a child too, scares with its hunger. and it wants her so much. this uncovered scale that produces the most volts of life energy. something new enough, so will be revealed forever, always quite young. not alpha-beta Virginia's Waves, washed between by long, transparent fingers. as if spell lies in the manifestation of letters. typing, she wants to disappear from room, but the room is controlled by god, who moves his hands so fast, and she is pulled at double speed. a talent with zero external...without something external, or something saving. but she is nailed and nailed to this funnel, and kissing and changing the talents of somebody's else, as if she has full experience and scale, fully possesses it.

thank you for stretch and fix the beauty in a material frame above bed, so that we can look at it at least forever. they mention your drugs when talking about your books. what drugs, what books, I don't know. you're so close to the ocean of absorption and imagination. drugs are just attracted to your waves and words as something the same for brain, same encoding or effect. elastic air under, the sound of world through the water weight filter, visions of another room and stairs on walls from the bottom of bath. and these descriptions of trees, or «august evenings» sometimes... so innocent. institutions and magical state machine realism are so purely interwoven, as if suffering and power does not need to be preceded or properly presented. I love how is it clear that you don't have to explain why politics and imagination co-exist here, in this mind. it arises so innocently again, no foreplay, but not harshly, but brings pain. as someone does not need an explanation of logic and rhythms of dream world, so does the world of suffering. politics can deprive freedom of speech. then I remember my favourite movie, «closet land», where a woman was blamed for metaphors, that blue flying cats don't exist, and I think maybe the truth is not highest price, if it is sacrificed for imagination. I look at the two halves of her book, and book does not fall apart.
I remember having a cold forehead, but decay from the heat ring around a brain, and I take her writing about ice, and passing through the frozen territories in a text extinguished the temperature, because my fire was mental. think, her dreams, slipness, kindness to any coming form, heroin - it's one ocean.
a girl with a rose-shaped stain, first at school, then in basements, cells, floor bars... drinking from a soap dish... is so close and own, as I don't know what. love you