But I am glad you had a nice way. How is the Brussels aorta nowadays?
– Brussels was a quiet ex lover rejoicing in our return, seductive but not forgiving to have to share us with Paris. Amsterdam enticed us, Mother’s Finest sclerotiae were a new wonderful door as we surpassed the thread of the hours and their dark fears with chants that glorified love, walking for ever as we waited for the Sun, walking stronger as what we carried in our voices carried us too, people around we accepted too, the streets and cars like an open flow and the bridges/spaceships we boarded on when architecture replaced parks and their misty foggy grounds and charmful leaves… The never ending song made it the most powerful trip in more than one sense.
I would have very much liked to cross our physical paths as I know I see new doors around you, although I will come again to the netherworld. I would have very much liked to cross our physical paths as I know I see new doors around you, although I will come again to the netherworld.
Beautiful. Though interesting Brussels remains in the duality of its own creation, even though the fluxes there come to an ecstatic abundance, attracting every opposition and every ego to a circular symbol, coronated by stars.
In is in this pit the devil lived.
In this pit lived the devil.
And as the frequency of united duality transposes the atomary ecstacy of hydrogen and oxygen bounding to be a new existence, combining Roman and German, it must be said the rest of the space has understood it’s meaning.
The day Hollande became president of France must have been the sign the essence of union-la-force is lying now outside of the borders of the ones who pretend they are.
– We very much talked to the devil too.
I like how you say Brussels, to me she remains the one from that Dick Annegarn song. Noisy,messy, perfectly round and beautiful (maybe the face of my belgian ex surimprint that map)…
Amsterdam is treaturous, let’s hope our Président won’t be.
And about the doors. It’s not that they opened. It is that they-themselves realized the very existence of having to create a gateway, is building the necessity of a wall and so completely is cancelling out it’s evolutionary function.
In that sense this plane isn’t wobbly… Treaturous and presidents are perfect combinations when they expose each other, undressing every single bit of clothing that hides the darker fear for hijabs and burqa’s. It is underneath their own clothes that they are about to discover the beauty and completeness of their own heavenly bodies, reflected by the cultures of the Moon.
Naakt als Nu. Si Nu comme maintenant.
Zo handhaaf ik me-zelf. Ansi, je maintiendrai moi-meme,
Paradise is here they say. The dice is cast.
And all that falls, falls into place. Remembering the soil. The roots.
The creation space. The one we were and had become.
Champagne he says, while he signs the deal.
Algoritmic going forward, being programmed by the fear,
letting go of yet another connection.
Falling down with gracious luciferian ideals. Drink to be,
my fearful son. Drink to be, so thy pain be gone.
Drink to understand that the others won.
And as Beethoven composes his symphony, that all mankind our brothers shall be, a weapon of mass uplifting he created. For the ones defining human culture. Contrasted against the ones defining a machine.
– This smells of dust, fire, sulfur and incense. The nice warm smell of lupines and palace. Paris is out of running water (at least this floor is) and so I smell chaos like a welcomed friend carried on the wind. France is a battleground of the minds (isn’t it all) and I want to know, is this so typical of our generational now or of a forever human (?) consciousness… Beethoven was a mathematical mind. Do we not want our blueprint to be drawn by genius?
It’s understood that the non-door doors are everywhere – and everyone must know by now to go through the window – yet you make them glow.
Paris is out of running water. It was privatized in the capital. The very essence of life, channeled through steel pipes, water usage digitally transmitted through a modem- system, bill printed automatically by computer and laser-printer, incasso bureau counting down the seconds until the reminder is sent. With extra charges.
Drop by drop is counted now.
What once was provided by the work of dozens who earned their daily bread, is now replaced by a electronic circuit, increasing both the price of and taking away the jobs from, while theatrically saving the state and the future of it’s genius citizens. Yet they cry under the burden of knowing that even nazi-fascism system counted less victims, and go on by dramatically pretending and discussing the numbers that blind us and keep us away from the higher math in every second.
And as the dust, sulfer and the smell of decaying fire reminds you of distant cities where airplanes collapse the reason of the towers of duality, you recognize the very curse behind your water shortage in what happened years ago. It is certain the consciousness will be dwimbling in chaos, until the last lies are exposed.
But the ship has left and the light has lowered to an ambient distortion which we now call trembling atmosphere, and the once-so-enriching-art has picked up the pieces of a culture that lost himself in his own ways, reusing trash, baptising hate in the light of beauty, and playing theatre with the hungry and the homeless. What once was so great and vibant is forever cursing the extinction of the last man.
You know. The colors were too vibrant. The longing too exuberant. The pills too ecstatic. The beer too strong. The flesh too weak. And though here in this Apocapitalistic Era, the bodies souls inhabit are no longer male nor female, but plasticine breasts and smiles, reflecting nothing but each other.
Perhaps this is the very why. The spitting on the women. The raping of the men. The decaying of the bodies in the shadow of Acropolis. The earnings for the masters. How we create for life.
The killing in the name of Satan.
Natas is birth. And Satan will not.
An explosion in the sky was heard. And the end began.
And as we are reducing ourselves to mere atoms, connecting big bangs to speed of light, searching for the meaning through the searching for no meaning, we run and run and run and never find the line.
And though the messias that will come with all the answers, has already come many times, and though you know their stories. You know their visions. You even embrace most of their words. Subconsciously. Discovering through the echoes how French and how English merely reflect the sources of their light. And it’s fucking all the same.
There is no knowledge. There is merely shadow.
And there is you, who wants to flow.
And still you believe today is different. Still you believe that you are different.
Still you believe that there is less or more.
Still you believe that the lies will vanish, forever balancing yourself in a selfish story in which you play the good guy – connecting with a dictorial empire, living the next stage of it, masquerading to hide the very ugly parts of your personal movement through this space.
We are the conscious selected race. Get your passports ready.
We are the Europeans. Time for lift off. Let’s get high.