all the magic in the world are like sweet balls and the tiniest possible flowers
spinning down from heaven, flower petals from a wilt, too much has vanished
a brevity also found in roadside blossom
for others and myself of course; you will come to inspect your influences and sensibilities you will deeply examine the source, understand its framing, interrogate all aspects, variegate your sources how have you arrived to where you find yourself? what year was it when you understood love is not love
ewhat is a faith
mirrormoonheard a song that reminded me of your creations. hope you're well.
eric there are still dreamlands on our earth, I saw them in a painting by Heba cradled by a quiet sky save for all the echoing of lost songbirds, how lovely in knowing there's an elation resolutely uncoupled from everything I've so bitterly sloughed off, how lovely in knowing that an emptiness only after its been lived in proves itself useful in pointing to something true, how lovely no indulgence afforded here could ever graze her colored strokes, how lovely a tongue grows from its betrayal of little silences to an echoing of lost songbirds I've heard in a painting
ericjoy, you leave it by the wayside and remember remembering it until you don't. or you pluck it for yourself or another, which is a funny thing to do because then it remembers remembering itself until it doesn't. sadness is the sound of remembering remembering