what a prologue seems like
is a canvas painted on the knife
who knows if it’s real or just a haze
inside are two false faces in the triangle phase
both veils fall once the trance is closed
and the real story can rise to be composed.
before there was a window in front of me, behind my back
your gentle grace as you were caressing your face,
grew a stress only you can guess.
art and Godard sophisticated are.
glanced through the window, I saw only gibberish
you all are wonderful, the way her dress was so colorful.
last dance kyb
familiar and distant ambiguity screeching irritating noises drunk sailing between a tiny comfort cell reverbed shrieks everything is blinding grey homely fascist uniforms as accessory epileptic unifying hasty hypnotic dance tenor and baritone Division non-Order Suicide continuing teardrop Scarpa