i point in my own direction. though i try not to. as the timelab randomly assigns guilt, joy or indifference, i wonder and drive.

most of the time i drive overdrived.

i shouldn't stop the mind, it has life of it's own.

i shouldn't let things go on their own, i know. but the lack of certainty walks in while technology shows off.

self prescription only: all kind of circumstances and attributes come in little colored glass bottles. 

this season's natural predisposition for entropy is highly addictive. it just started to develop an allergy to itself, though.

clearly: not a walk in the park feeling.

 

 

la sofisticación de las nuevas categorías y sus restricciones permite la fundición en un estado de perturbación espacial que genera un punto de contacto de naturaleza superficial entramada.

 

don't tell me

it's all right

it's not

don't try to

i won't

don't bother

i'm not

what is it

that harms a little

by making no sense at all

that hurts somewhere in the middle

by telling yourself how you work

feel

dream

hope

what is this no sense that hides behind the walls

the facts

the sores

 

a moment in time struggles for recognition. forwards oneself towards the persistance of it's uncertain leading presence. it searches and picks it's hits and runs and pretends a selection of his own attributes. the real show off: lack of structure. after pushing transformational issues aside, something else develops: scars from breakdowns and loss of hope, scars from the unhappened, scars from it all.

the unhappend is related to the memory since the memory has no control overherself, whatsoever.

emotional definitions are randomly assigned to memories.

the memories from the unhappened lead to random somatization.