Maybe the beat is sweet sin. Maybe the affliction is a beautiful curse, made unto fruition. Maybe Viola knows triumph; sour candy, salty souls, vatic appetites. The bleeding of the skies—the water in the fire, the flame flickering throughout eternity. An infinite affair, weeping intuition, to know neither quite care for the other. Like tribal circuits—reverberating quickly, the ghost of its mirror. All those years put to change, as it meant so much, reduced to ash. Let life be its passions. To each in a zone. The perception wars. Baffled by realities, possibilities. Such angst—to side and swiftly. Afloat a trombone. Traipsing between hemispheres. So tender the absolute horror, so fragile the soul, deep light, withering into sharpness. In moving hills, in rapture the stars, to realizing motion is tacit.
