As availability rises on top of what is set upon, misguided informants preclude what is deemed to stop for whatever reason. There is no mistake in finding what may be lost. There is a time where all communications besides what is informed become clear, whenever purposes abide by the time something is real. As it has been said before, all inclusions can only be assumed if there is a phonograph available to store what is left from the right. In searching for these and other answers, I become mentally impaired to attract the fundamental equations that support what is written in these sentences. Feel free to stop by.
As the shadow of whatever is struck upon the face of martyrdom, simply replying to a message opens up the possibility to rise the common sense of starvation. However, if there seems to be no boundary tied to whatever is written on the page, I cannot abide if there is an opportunity to strive towards what is if there is not an is but an if. In spite of all these sentences, I find myself tied to the form of struggle where stardom and bullshit includes feminity or sand. There is a tied boundary that lies within my head, and it is the shape of things to come: ability to write or to ignore myself as the line becomes real and the context includes concepts such as shore, abyss or tendency.
Systematically informing the situation to my superiors, I entangled what was supposed to be an octopus and as the line became blurry, I decided to write a page on top of the next one, creating a book, thus creating a shape, thus building a world, thus opening up the possibility of destruction. Anything built must be unbuilt. These words will die. According to the scenario where a cat is a lamp or a problem is solved by the sole power of identity, the infinite blossom of desires includes what is written in the form of stores and candy. The title of the play is God, but I cannot seem to find myself. The informant replies, with the customary inquisotorial phrase: Is this the place where all things go? And the slow answer provided by the souls of your ancestors include the bottom of an ocean, a clean open air and the potential to become something entirely different: a plan, a double decker, a leaf. Finding myself inside these stop signs, I cannot seem to appear as a potential bartender but rather a clear syncopated step: the one I take as I find what was lost underneath the sofa: dust and bones. In my travels, I have seen the lifes of others include places I can call or disturb. In other travels I have been able to achieve stability by ordering what is found to appear before me: Matter does not seem to pay any attention. Matter seems to find itself tied to a specific sequence of events and impositions by the language that is being spoken. These words, friend, foe, companion, list of titles is only another place where stability relies upon the self.
I find no clues as to where I should be heading, and therefore, the path before what is written can only be similar to the one that will be. Past will become present. Future will become past. It is all a matter of perspective: where you are, what you see, which dress are you wearing and how can this be. If my opinion is valid, I can only seem to absorb potential claws picking the teeth of my ambivalent obscurity: the one which lies ahead of me and that is no more and no less fatidical or empirical; and yet, for brief spaces of time, I can see myself wondering with nothing: this place where safety and balance are the most desirable place on top of the soil: a place where nothing grows and grows higher and higher until a huge amount of nothing has been accumulated, creating an enormous void where nothing is surrounded by nothing more and nothing else and nothing in itself; and the more nothing is accumulated, the more a possibility of something to appear out of nothing becomes real. Hopeful thinking. Wishful thinking. There is nothing rather than this: a sentence: a word placed after the other. My spirit includes parts of other atoms just like an omelet. I am a mix of blended ingredients unable to see myself and ready to be eaten by the open mouth: the one that looks from behind and speaks to my ear: you are not a piece of egg: you are not salt and oil: you are not boiled or frowned upon: you are simply structures built to entertain yourself.
My hand stops. My head spins. My infamy decides to decline whatever is plausible within the available space, and as I begin to elaborate the following thought, a jester comes back to me and whispers: are you using enough words? Is this the place where all your sentences go? Where is the garbage bin? Where is your eye. I cannot seem to stop but wonder, again: this line, which is starting to appear as if nothing is inclusive or plausible, where does it end? Where did it start? will it die with me? Am I already dead? Is the line dead? Who am I speaking to and who am I speaking about? The informant hides again, shows the passport with a fake identity, which may be real, and I cease to ask questions. I let the word pass and it simply goes through: Phenomenon. Availability. Space
