Haha got you now old wattle! Here on this page surrounded by sheet, haha out now, I will wise you up perverted pendulum. Expose the pottery wheel of sculpted perspectives and crafted tears. This paranoia of being bad might create some good work.
Is it in the beautiful things that we find peace? or is it a kind of addiction, a shameful appetite? The ugly things at times provide a deep feeling, inspiring all the wrath of reality. There beauty resides secretly in a place where I do not feel rejected, is ugliness not of light?
Why are we gifted with sight, is it not to see? Yet our sight is limited, I can't see the back of my head, my neck can only go so far. My eyes only take up a small space. I can't even see myself. I am tired of sight.
My taste is far more capturing of the self. I can taste my breathe, my gut and when the forsaken arises, the purge tastes of me. A taste I can not escape from. I can not decide to look away - the turning of an eye. The tongue can smell and describe it to you. The tongue in all its salivating glory is an umbilical chord. The creature in a vat with a thousand eyes.