Radical death seeks re-birth in the peace of in-betweenness and hopes not vainly for a pair of green grass goggles, groping for the other side and seeing only blackness where thick green glass was meant to reflect the missing element from daily tricks of the wandering day-parade: A parody of approximations and amalgamations becoming entirely too familiar to the brokenhearted peasant class, under a full mast, reaching for the promised land...

Trust not the worry and fuss of the must must train, left in the dust by familiar dreams and reconstructions of color and sound, built layer upon texture, upon a singular vision trained to the sight unseen of the green grass graveyard.
Discarded complacency comes with a heavy reward of responsibility, spelled out plainly in the margins next to faded lines, open to discrepancy and aural torment if my retinas smell your color code correctly and my fingers are properly reading your vibration. With any creation a moment of reconciliation must occur between the self of past meets present meets future deconstruction. All I ever needed was a self-resurrection, an insurrection of of spirit vs. ego warrior, a truce with my master narrative--not allowing me to step outside the sacred lines and indefinite times created by doubtful uncertainty and self-preservation by animal instinct.