Novi_sad

Circle is the only kindness of geometry, which is usually perfect but also, it is at the same time dramatically insupportableness and hegemonic. We keep the circles for us and we leave the triangles and rectangulars for others.

Cyber Gangs vs HSBC = 3 – 0

’’There are good roads to every village in the islands, except for seven of the smaller islands, six of which only have one village’’.

1 village in 1 island.

We have been grown without synthetic pesticides or chemical fertilizers and we do not contain genetically modified genes. We have never been irradiated nor treated with chemical additives.

Researchers blocked TLR4 using naloxone, which stops dopamine’s secretion. Secretion is responsible for the permanent (intoxicated) euphoria and thus naloxone ’’stops’’ the addiction.

Dopamine’s secretion also ’’appears’’ when mourning for all female manes, which are lying on the beds of compromised love.

Today, the postman delivered an envelope which (instead of a real sender’s name), had the following sentence written on it:

’’Immense nostalgia for something that we never lived, yet it was our entire life…’’

The name of the receiver was: Blue Sun

A lake of tears on the floor of the house – this is not science fiction.

Max Neuhaus once said: ’’The sound of a highly frequented motorway has almost the same frequency spectrum and decibel level as the ocean but nobody would like to live close to a motorway. Noise is just an indicator. If you want to avoid it, it is not enough to construct noise barriers but you have to question the whole traffic system. We are interested in noise as a complex cultural phenomenon you can read and decipher. It is absolutely not enough and even dangerous to simplify and to set noise against silence’’.

Moreover: those who cannot listen to a song and break into tears are already dead…

This is equivalent (in aesthetical terms), with a woman walking by ’’carrying’’ a flying gazelle’s aura, or, more precisely, walking as a spinning giraffe which is climbing towards the inevitable.

Physicists use electrical signals from slime mould (Physarum polycephalum) to make music.

Pansophical Fog eliminates all the doubts. They actually turn into vague breathing, or, occasionally, into one handed trains. The train grabs the fog from the neck, requiring the death of agony and the birth of palm trees, which are growing exclusively on your lips.

I would like you to send me your breathe – but, this is not pixels…

I also want to be the shade of a pine tree on the back side of your neck.

The erosion of all words unfolds the sunrise of mental strings, when the pictorial + blossoming embracement of souls ignores all theories.

Psychoacoustic canyons all over her eyes. Empty hands are navigating towards empty hands and vice versa.

Music makes audible the dynamic, differential, discordant flux of becoming, that precedes and exceeds empirical individuals and the Principium individuationis.

You are falling in love with someone when you look at the same place through each other’s eyes. This place does not exist of course – but you are staring on it together.

There can’t be any other testimony than a visceral one.

Invisible, intangible, and ephemeral entities – sounds have little in common with ordinary visual objects and substances. Your soul is being split into two gigantic rocks. There is no island to inhabit this millisecond.

Squared senseless robots – you, all of you.

Why our symbiosis is only taking place on the clouds?

Like these moments when you are opening up a dialogue with death, by listening to a lamenting song under the blinding light of the sun.

Pennsylvanian Oaks. Your fingers are not like Pennsylvanian Oaks. Your fingers are Pennsylvanian Oaks.

Aurora Borealis makes sounds and they appear to be generated in the air about 230 feet above the ground. At this exact same height (230 feet above the ground), the sunset along your face seems irrational.

If there could be an equalization of psyches, then everything would be better. But, psyches are not sound, they are not music and they are very often ignoring the social apparatus, something that leads them to a staircase which climbs directly to the re-occupation of what we literally own, it is ours and its called: loneliness.

I want to smell the sound of that harp you are hiding under your armpits.

Can you give me the missiles of dignity through a kiss?

Can you promise me that abyss is not deaf?

I like the beauty of empty shelves and I vote for the erasure of all thoughts.

And, I know this path. We have again walked through it in July 2033 – southwest of Mars.

Cyclops on wheelchairs are smiling. Magnolias are growing in her ears; she sets the stars on fire with her fingers; etcetera…

The sand is the sky of the ground and the sky is the bottom of heaven.

An empty white room: Inside there, I want to dance a song with you by looking each other in the eyes, only – not touching at all…

After that, I could die.

Really.

This song is being played in my head on a ’’1.000.000.000.000.000 loop mode’’.

Our borders should be revolving flames around our hearts.

I wanted to write something in this sentence, but I forgot it.