Hey don’t loop back though. The port is arts and devious hegemonic structures. New silvered fangs over the lips of a lover. Looking down. Grifter in arts festival loungewear pilfering wallet-shaped souls out of people’s pockets, returning to Hippie-Junkie Land to share in all the riches. Swallowing the psilocybin mushroom chime he’s thrown up in his mouth. Speaking bliss over the world today. Bliss you, bliss that. The whole damn foundering fairy of Sweet Malaise under the effects of a toothbrush’s gum aggression, much later. Would he. But wasn’t him. The brief undergone subject of a study. The paranoid agent in the looming window of a castle covered in clouds. Weak-legged stifled baby deer learning to stand for the first time prancing off into the aether. Barely able to really understand. But become the one who dreams, I am. The soft-knitted fabrics of reality warping to accommodate my physical disruptions into space. What say you the ghost of odds that I may go from here and be prosperous at all. In this world I don’t know what to do with and often forget not to take so seriously. Have you pleasanted the endless rhymes of Barbadoic Driz Entine? Have you begun to suspect the world you’ve created in your head is not merely the one being mapped onto the world as it might be? That it is in fact the doings of truth and that what you believe becomes real? Oh no. Not me. Simultaneously living aside other realities, only attempting to understand the central thing. That this world is true only for me and exists only in my mind. Wouldn’t it be lonely? I need a blanket to cover me, sometimes. I use my jacket while lying on my blanketed bed because I don’t want to disrupt the make of it. Sheathes of life concealing a persona mask. Waves of Theologian Phoenixes waiting to blaze the downward skies of the day. Cross-pollinating Idea Germs funded by the executor of your estate’s Time. I Wander into the forest of love to be alone. I come upon a glade where the trees have withered in the season of eyes. I set down my tent pegs and set up camp and wander internally on a dream of a ride. I am taking it for us, now. I am coming lately to understand: it does not always make sense. There are problems with the size of the will in the man to honestly die and be born again. But we go on. Therein other problems lie. But become one. The solace of being alone with yourself in the night. If it is warm where you are as it is cold out, so you can think. Even having thoughts merely listening. Always listening always watching in some way. Much as God is said to do. Do you ever wonder that all you believe is really a lie? Does it become you, and why should you care? He takes his time to answer never questions. The answers are never answers and look like Time. Space moves through and is filled up with a gradient he can’t describe. The solemn-sounding voices of speakers on old process radios in dreams. Stitching the seam of the day up with the cloudbottoms of the night. And sun sets hairs’ widths away from my eyes. In all this closeness that has come to me. Do I look away. Preparations of a song that plays at the time you need it the most—preparations for death. For the infinite disarray beautiful spiritual blissful worlds apart. A whole new consequence of living and seeing things. Wake up. Wake up to Jumbo Mouth. The whole implicit system. Wake up to wondrous fumes. The breathe-in-breathe-out that takes you. Wake up to long night and respite from sorrow. If you can. If you can. Wake up.