A blue feeling about a sweetheart is breaking over the lazy and dead. I’m still not awake, a bad idea. Ideas with particularity, again. A feeling for the bread before it rises stuffed with blasts from space, our fond way in,
praising doom on our own dime.

I’m that slaphappy-proof to diffuse your eyes from posterity. Where your eyes go is the whole body cool from so many substitutes for meditation we can’t breathe.