Never met a fist that made an honest man out of me, Infinite direction or non action all I ever mean. In my dreams I can be anything in my dreams we can do everything everything. I can mold my organs into comme des garcones. The value of labor vs value of lungs, in the dirt I can be everything everything in new lack of thought can’t regret what I really mean. Looking at the bathers with new fiberglass parts the form of future is subjectivist art, grasping for real the hand’s cut by scissors the only way through it is under the river. The blood the rust the fiend in the form, deeply upset by a lack of ascension. The only way to truly believe is setting the self in suspension. All that I want out of life is the sense that I'm right and indifference is not so fucked up.