Nov 27, 2011
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Nov 1, 2011
Oct 25, 2011
Oct 23, 2011
Jul 20, 2011
JUST ABOUT EVERYTHING
Tired of parameters. I will just write about everything.
So here begin the disclaimers.
If I sound authoritative it is simply a pose; I know as much as I know and I'm aware of that, or not. With the internet there is always access to more, but the fine motor wires in my wrists make it so that I cannot be comprehensive... ever, and limits are precisely what make us human, eh?
Like so many other things in my life this is a fringy-edged start, it flutters, it blows the same direction of the wind, it tangles with my eyelashes, I see as far as the horizon, but just as I like to write about balloons and boats though my experience with them is limited, the horizon jags with hammer-bursts an ship-boughs.
It's peculiar that liminality, fictional worlds and the undead have become fads, they are their own ghosts now. This is my altar to those electronic priestesses in transluscent gowns and transparent, scrolling skin, and the figures I mold out of chalk and mud.
It's a peculiarity that fiction, deathliness and liminalness have become electronic ghosts, while priestesses translusceated in chalk and scroll fad the figured muddles of worlds, now, and out.
Read on, per favore.
Tired of parameters. I will just write about everything.
So here begin the disclaimers.
If I sound authoritative it is simply a pose; I know as much as I know and I'm aware of that, or not. With the internet there is always access to more, but the fine motor wires in my wrists make it so that I cannot be comprehensive... ever, and limits are precisely what make us human, eh?
Like so many other things in my life this is a fringy-edged start, it flutters, it blows the same direction of the wind, it tangles with my eyelashes, I see as far as the horizon, but just as I like to write about balloons and boats though my experience with them is limited, the horizon jags with hammer-bursts an ship-boughs.
It's peculiar that liminality, fictional worlds and the undead have become fads, they are their own ghosts now. This is my altar to those electronic priestesses in transluscent gowns and transparent, scrolling skin, and the figures I mold out of chalk and mud.
It's a peculiarity that fiction, deathliness and liminalness have become electronic ghosts, while priestesses translusceated in chalk and scroll fad the figured muddles of worlds, now, and out.
Read on, per favore.
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