Hate altered. 
 
So shall we live.  
 
True physicality nests in our thoughts even as  
No real daemons roam with panicked ants on the ground. Consciously mixed media. But you can’t throw fake daemons out. It helps there’s a mating dance to appreciate what they are doing — or not — we’re working on it.  
 
There’s body hustle, along with rips in the cargo of spacetime where our uppermost thoughts burgeon in ennobling, blobby warmth from a sweetheart, accompanied by addiction to risk.  
 
Come here often?