Descent into hell. Icon. Second half of the 14th century. Collection of the State Russian Museum
Divine Harmony, there was a dark hair in between the first pages of the booklet. Lucernarium psalms and stikhirad (verses) O mild Light, mercy of Peace, praise troparion (something repeated) short hymn
polyphonic we drink coffee out of vases, hang ourselves to trees and ceilings no time to get gloomy though. Week of the Blindman with clay in his eyes I think he was telling me the truth on Easter Monday.
Couple of lines from a movie Big Bullet written down for fun: My name is Bird. My name is Bird. My name is Bird.
Don’t stare at me. Please. My name is Apple. Forget Fiona. My name is Jeff. Anything else? My name is Tongues of fire? Maybe, You want blood on your hands? Why would I want that?
Spreading scent of perfume odor sprinkled too much to feel someone passing foul smells of fat of loathing of leather of floating of an aftershave of milk of sleeping in a world of smells in your nose and the living stench. Fragrance that brings instant feeling of power on your face for you, habitus in your hands on your body and around you all day, while splashing odor you can hear screaming women and children, aroma of blood sweat tears spit piss leather nails and steel hitting bodies. You rule you kill you smell.
The result is that the subconscious is lost (little girl rationally recognizes her fate). ROSE.
You do surprise me and guilt is a place. Blame in your shoes. It has started, it will never stop. Ya. How do you do it? This chaos, this
You have travelled much, how come your world is so small? But it isn’t, you just don’t see me. I drove and drove. Anthill, misty mountain, chill, coffee, gas station, me clothed in layers excavating like something that was.
What about me? Nothing. Powder and makeup. Of some kind. That tower of mine, lit like a snowy tree by one intense led light, ad or something. bye
FOR YOU, TO GET YOU THE MOST UNHOLY, TO GET AT YOU, HOLY GUN, GUNMEN, NUG, NUG, TO GET A HINT, PINK WINK. WHAT? WHO ARE YOU? HOW WILL YOU KNOW? NEVER ENDING BLEED. NEVER ENDING RIDDLE, GIVE ME A FIDDLE, PLAY THIS WAR, THROUGH IT, SURVIVE IT AND AFTER HAVING SEEN IT, WHAT THEN. MINT HOLY WAR, ERASE IT, FORGET IT, LOSE IT, BUT IT NEVER WILL BE FORGOTTEN, STILL AFTER SOMEWHAT YEARS.
When are we at war? Could it be now? Who has declared it? It is a norm that there is war. World without war anywhere would be abnormal. Why is revenge important? Or honor? Respectable, respectability making people destroying some for the sake of honor. I can ask.
Deliberately endanger someone’s health, bring atmosphere of fear and hate, distress, anxiety, hurt, ill, hopelessness. Does harassment change anything?
What is my right to my body, mind and the idea of me, to ideas that I produce. They light me up, I go to them, yes, it is moving, or is it going, and I get excited, nourished by them. Mouth open like a. I cannot do but realize ideas, they give me strength as they are and change into other. So what is me then? When am I? When did I begin? Because I have begun, I have started. I have begun to spread, my ego has a strong will, it as me wants, demands, pushes me forward. Ambitious bitch, never letting anyone tell I cannot. Makes me want, there is a yearning, probably passion, grabbing, grip. Something to call mine. But I have to understand that eventually I don’t need much though I have much to give. How do I learn to share instead of possessing. To possess is a lonely place, lonely task to guard the belongings, possessions, that are extensions of me, To get extended otherwise in immaterial way. In a good way to achieve.
Stolen words written with mud on newly painted vehicle for five with western with twang by my shaking finger. I laughed. It felt so good, the mud in my fingers, the act of childish and to do something fantastically ridiculous. Wipe my skin my face. (my hands to my shirt, trousers, dirty work of the day)
LUMINESCENCE: ANY EMISSION OF LIGHT THAT CANNOT BE ATTRIBUTED MERELY TO THE TEMPERATURE OF THE EMITTING BODY.
Just to warn you, when you walk by, when you place your eyes on me. On The mud, the twang, looking up to the luminescent clouds over this. How do they seem to be weightless? How is it possible for them?
I had a beer since it is my day off. Quote: Agreement with governor Blanchard, finally fall on attitude, no no, heartbrat, brat, bratt who ultimately controlled government’s funds at the end of the 1980s, business conditions to survive, and the management consultants doubted him. That’s fair. Chances of survival worst of all he didn’t. Sigh. quote end.
Coming crucifuxing, to have faith and other blushihi t danger in dangered. My broken half, my fabulous dancers, my running winnings. And other smallest things (There are no pictures but impressions put together.)
Color is black. What is with your hair? Eat hamburgers and drink beer like ordinary people. How ordinary..Death by drunken asphyxiation, death by misadventure, death by boredom, death by Split Beaver. Well, I never. Setting these fucking pyro things at seven gates of Hell. We were rehearsing because of red clouds of smoke. Writing Satan’s love songs to have a breakthrough, we were really screwed. Women wanted to do certain things with us which had never happened before. No rest for the wicked. Characters immortalized in denim and leather. Man who is a lie will not do. It was metallers who were having to look elsewhere to find anything heavy.
Many of the men who disappeared recited verses, sand on and under, in and all over, They never saw them again, they never heard of them again, no need to find hidden meanings in there
Of course, some knew what was happening, It was as if the men had vanished. blown away. it is like some people are more valuable than others. Who is to decide? Whose task it is to know? they searched for, had been searching for the DHM, deep hidden meaning, to look for fingerprints of the men with explosives bullet-riddled body demolished the orchard’s walls, the trigger wire for the bomb that had exploded earlier
It is bass in his voice reifying the opposition, difference of quality in low and something large. Foamy chocolate heart of an image, still fingers hateful night, and so on. But yes, it is romantic. Searching for sources of awe even in contempt. I have a constant feeling of guilt for I don’t know what, for that and that. Quiet masochism. Dirty and cheap in between. But it is not me. I’m the receiver of his favor, of he paying attention, making me solid out of these pieces he found and what is me.
Moon as a triple reflection on a window demonstrated by a street lamp. I go slowly by floating like asleep, as sleep itself, sleeping. Sink my hands into foam, into my hands and his voice, rub it on my face to feel his w.
Majakollektiivi Timanttimetsä 