On blood and concrete the body. Fear. The body, a vanishing point on the horizon.
Under the summer night of street light, old buildings; hardened like the city that made its needs and torment. It was built to collapse inward from its own weight of thought, NoIse, instinct, QuIet. Now. From clenched fists, from boots, from 4 soldiers of the zeitgeist, imbuing ethos into already rubbled debris. The city runs away from the defeated mind; the body laying in its shadow of/and the slow fade to nothing. To death, final freedom, to Being gone and away.
Years
Working. The body works for others. Against.
Awake/Alive on the inside of all things - simulacrum, concrete ambitions of money to end. Patterns of power and The paradigm. Places on the outside living in dreams of carved out geometry of childhoods, or Being lost and home at once in the vacancy of mental illness. So it would seem To Be, wandering dirt roads and clouds at sunrise lawless of will, of the vibrant emptiness that is dark of knowledge and waking reality. Asleep 1/3rd. Gone and away from infinite desire. From pleasure. From diversion. From the taste of blood and the anxiety of need. The body leaves the city inside its reflection; climbing out for years, gone. Being.
Away, in dirt and dark. Walking
