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The vastness.

Migrated topic.


Is this a place for real names?What is a real name
Oh!What a joyous place to take your brain, a wild and wonderous trip of the unknown!
Is this not erratic bliss? Controlled in a way minimal enough to still get back home!
I wonder where next Rimbaud? The planet life! As it seems this existence somtimes seems to be lacking significantly, in what we our foolhardy retinas recept, in the way of colour, vigourous movement, laughter and values that seem archaic when you whisper the dream!Our so called neighbouring relatives seem to be generally extinct, while we bellow truths to the minority the blessful suucint. This life, this shell, this lack lusture experience shall be travelled away from- perhaps on a trip of some sort Rimbaud? Let us construct a device shall we say? To take us to this places, the colourful exuberance that we whisper of, and glimpse only in our wildest imaginations (only for a a droplet of time, as they are listening) Name a destination Rimbaud! Our device needs to be brought ALIVE I SAY! LET US TRANSFORM INTO SEEMINGLESS ENERGY AND FLOAT ON THE SPIRIT OF POSSIBILTY! WE CANNOT GET THE BUS! THE 56 HAS NO-LONGER TRAVELS FROM THE INTERCHANGE OF INTELLECT, IT HAS STOPPED SERVICE, TRYING TO AVOID ITS ROARING SOUNDS OF MOVING OBLIVION INTO SPACE BEEN HEARD! (as they are listening!) We shall transcend in silence to those of ignorance and arrive courageously to our friends and new acquaintances in the uknown!LET US GO!

Yours sincerely,

your invitation is valid musico, inviting too, and without doubt more so in the light of my more recent whimsical meanderings - through the assistance of calm sleep and circumstance, i have now been becoming increasingly aware that hallucination is the matter. my vagabond spirit is now itching to glimpse the infinite, freeze the moment, expire fictionally and then wash itself in the sea of a thousand and one blue eyes.

you talk of release, of taking off into the more tropical climates of imagination, armed only with mystical crystal smoke and the paranoia-soaked awareness of being third-party fodder. you liken our brothers to a dead species, some kind of sleeping dinasaur, and brother, we all know who killed the dinasaur - the storm.
i speak now before the flood.
i am aware that to ride the storm is to live the poem.
that dream is our one true currency.
and my fellow drainpipe demon, that we are at the doorestep of universal language!

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