There’s this propulsion of engines who unrelent. I am yes prying any part of me into my matters not caring if they’re stone or slate or something that rumbles and quakes under my steps. These stones open no doors or reveal any revel they only are to be shaken and to be be pry-ed.
‘Deep time’ is the core of every line, I think. These flash-forward-flashing-backwards-forwards have no cares of that while they flux into rocks and waters and any cement they can grasp and pry themselves into. This type of force is unrecognizable to anything outside of the walls, who themselves bend and curve into themselves with every PUSH.
I met a boy who can’t see anything but granite. He forces these stones out of anywhere because it is all he sees, and he does it so unrelentingly that all metals and tools and plastics and ANYTHINGS tremble in the wake.
The wake is like a dawn to him. When he tells me that I fear anything close.

Well no. It’s not really like flowers losing petals as much as it is flower stems losing leaves I think. I had a dream last week with black and white people and it is the closest I’ve been to a black and white dream, yes. But this whole leaves thing sounds a little too distanced for how immediate I seem to be grabbing at. Its just the nature of force I think, like no wants and no hopes and no desires and no excitements and no real possessions, just a stalk like that. That should do justice for now I think.
Alongside

 is a soak-space I just need for my legs and now my dreaded head like small rocks that float around and crash together. I feel my wants for something I can have are very far because of laws f things that don’t exist and didn’t need to be labeled (you know those), but what means to me owns to- no no I am just trying to get some kind of senses- well like there’s no options I guess- well there could be options but there needs to be clarity of what I want to begin with.

I am playing many rounds of blue cards with termoils and soils alike, only the latter is only a dream. How miserably frustrating.

It’s easy a lot to wait.
Rocks in everything make right weight in otherwise sands that go so slow so I get very uneasy. With that, I don’t want to feel nothing anymore! There’s all these burns in me from high heat ambitions or filaments fibers peoples that- take a bunch of tacks and wrap yarn around them a bunch like that -hurt a lot! Seeing suns was something I had near me but what good that does when plants eat your shoes and muscles in your ankles swell up and burst all over the floor and you have staring contests with blood vessels and vessels in general of past sights sounds or feels feels feels feels -as I like- ya that’s no good here I don’t think. I am so cracked my glass self.

Seeing enough into the small holes where so much is hiding like everything because when you scale down it all swells again and he has an entire selfscape again and the scale is breathtaking. That time is done he thinks with rust.

Do I maybe sort of hold things like flakes of salts or like those little nail bits or things because I can’t answer the questions of my hands? Or something like that. The same circular air is always around but right now I’m building bricks from fiberal things that go back many years like tapestries like that. I can make a lot of due with that until after you go back and notice all the damned missedstich-es that you have to either live with and inside of or unravel the efforts into strandsagain where I start over.
It isn’t my want to do that at these times.

He sits by me and starts to talk about some kind of oak frame he built with hangnails and splinters he collected from his years. When I look through it there’s a new primary color that I don’t recognize but I recognize the other colors that it’s mixes-make. He tells me these vague scrambles of how I have only toyed with senses and the small sensations in pores but to truly know that I have to know it. I tell him a petty excuse of not knowing-bones-or-skins-or-something and he only looks back with a bludgeon-vision. I confess a sort of grain from my skin of how it’s time for me to want that but I am scared of that and how branches don’t ever grow with me only outside and I start to pour like the circle air I’ve been living with free of rent. When he decides to go he pulls apart the frame and bleeds from his hands. When he touches my arm there’s every color and not an ounce of ever belonging to anything. I’m just alone now.

Like that. Like lininglung-s with sub dived sub strates and kissing them all the way until it is all over the floor. But while the wet selves  unravel my skins and tissues are as derailed and stripable and just dry dry like anything you could see around and i am so riled by it all. 
It reminds me of when- even that seems to be of it’s own.
There’s something of when you lay there, it has been of long and unwinding senses but there is something.
Meanwhile there is a sternness and hardness to the things that cause my inard scrapings that can’t be shaved away like a muscle tissue from skin or something that I wish it would but instead I have been in a pillar of granite. I think it’s all sort of gone wherever i was heading.
I feel disposable to everyone. 

It’s clear likelake in little ponds over greens and trees and the heads that startled me coming from them. It’s like that I chose breathedive-in-g where it was cloudy and shallower and not rich in wander like I think I had crossed for. Much like my body is the same way I sort of tell him sort of like with pause and sort but I can’t commit to this because it makes my seam like I never wet it. 

Not that he knows wet, but likesort theresayshow he was diving long ago and it’s so pale how now I feel my own legs behind the trail for once.
Like with that I find these small tracings around of these motions that the ones talk about and lavish themselves on and ithewhile have skin on my hands and on my own arms and faces and selves and I will must do with that no matter how submersed. 
 I don’t grasp at any temperature of the waters but I don’t need to.
 Does he have to branchtheselves-side/me with these cold hands of outsides rather wisp my ties to down the richest of the fantasies, is beyond. Do I shelf the warm hands on my own, is inside.
What’s left, is porcelain.  

I’ll keep that near when he shrugs down the kicked plants or have you what’s there but what is that to any other or even a plant’s own self or device or whatever why. When I know I can gasp freely or stay submerged as you know I do choose it starts to shape what I want or what I expect or anyall those things that only cause me to have hardened hands and hardened eyes. When I take the amber from my eyes it’s only resemblant of the well we forged it from.

I can only ask when wisest to define in me the folding patterns of you.

I could say I feel a tad held back. There’s his notion like I was going to say this but his works as well of being true or some soft color to the people of life and say said things and days and nights to. There is a trait in the spectrum that will only turn all of it grey. There is no color for him or for his hands or for their hands or for the tapping insides of footsteps or nuances or things that are boldedin me.
There are natures for me how you hold back no beside me or sides but I am not inside if that means any to them which stones can often mean more. There is a light I believed that I at these nighttimes can’t anymore. 
Yousee as hesee that. There is no motion to fix or moment to change in that it could just be the wrong time. Even though there is a tug of the pace that tells me “no more at the wrong time,” but who is that to him to me as allinnardlyis and was. I will beside those. Well I did. There is a no more gist to it all.
Does he feel the neck between the birthing stones? Does he grasp what he needs beside?
I stillfill next door is never this dry as he carries the waters between us. It all seems cold at first but there is legend of the warmth inside. While he feels that I don’t and stillfill the space layed. It’s as severed there as he remembered and will do nothing to help and cauterize me. When will we cauterize?
There is no small circle or fine grating. There is no ring around me or greater hold of a branch. I dry his sullen pores and cauterize to clog.

dum dum girls/trees and flowers

When it sparkles in that wandering gesture they use sometimes, it’s like being very windswept by a slow push inwardly. I think this is the picture of the grey today is this day. I don’t seem to be having the nuance or finesse they say day, but the choice is side lined and there is a large flower held in this tree. 

“No one else is frightened,
only me”

I guess at in-ard shame I think. There’s lines from browns that remind me of bulletting in-ards like I like dreamed since I cannot seem to die-en-wholey. I am reminded of my blindness and have no choices as it’s time is gone. 
This is not that anymore and I feel no duty.
 But I still have needs of rubbing the salts into my blood beneath me as if the chimes in my barriers can even slightly be suppressed or make any sorts of subtle gestures and nuances, as I’ve been saying to him, for I know more now than know then.
Secondarily comes pit falls where I am shamefully splintered by the growths from these floors and these dastardsons that have taken oaths to watch my bones bare by their gesturedoing. 
I say no duty as I cringe at the step of my own.
“sweet bid that we swim in their seas” 

We see the same things today when I just think to me about the floating of water and the sinking into it. Samewise we think likes of salts in us and salts in sands into us. He speaks of salts inside me welling in me together there is a new sun.

When there is newsun there are no salts in my nails anymore.

There was a guy on the bus today who was very skinny wearing very large shorts and a very large black tee with a backwards brown cap and red hair.

The swayspace we lunge into with each brave finger and each brave mind can’t be together with the usspace I brace with the air. I don’t very question inside the travel or thethatnight trip-ing-of sights and whosaysever beside my eyes I can oh clearly see in rest. With a cloud in me there is just a drag like when sandbags lower beneath your sight you know yes? But when clear together and in eyebeside tonight I am a perfect ring on my own.
Novice races as always I am sure but they share a common dream of nonsuch plain day for whom gets every coin they want. But next time maybe? What bag chases the coin wherereach I didn’t really intentionally do and that could be it’s own coin itself. 
In my plainsale I reach for the lung and spill myself when it is only a pale blue. 

In his deep bones lie a secret sanctum for the small chasms of me to bury. When he lays in the sun the birds come and fan him in light with light where his dear red flesh takes a sheen takes a form where the lines in them recite scriptures in their stoicism. Even beside such my chasm body is asleep in his porous bones and in his porous being. 
When water is trickling into his desire and into his formidable muscle, I use my skin in tiny shapes I cut out at need to fill the generous pores. When I bleed missing skin he drowns missing air and the water together finds the ceiling our teeth the ceiling of hair the ceiling of the nails outside and the nails inside you beside you.
When he is cleared we share a single lung forever inside the synapse of the sunrise. 

panda bear/benfica

Only who holds will I give the gorgeous sleep beside to any of those distant reaches of mindinside that let me only crave for whentheday besideinside I am never allowed to be told.

Yet in my gentility and in my brashheart I will always grate this through me and my ritual-lungs. 

I recite ‘it’s fine’ and carry it all inside like I was moving. The muscle beside us will leave lines of memories that resemble the lines it already owns, as well as make the deepest engravings in us of self and of distance almost to the point of a retna-lgrid. Through any grid he will filter me under and any temple I must console to me, it will all compile. In a finale of self, I will unite me again in one, stoic ring-licself. ”and although I was burning, you’re the only light“ 

He still does not speak in my skin and my veins are loose under me, but who is that to a charter of intent.