Nothing less than the sound of footsteps
condensing into a shape.
Sneaking into the murky urban café³ of crispy mornings.
Realized it was a mirror after hours of work. They are filth.
And also easily lost in the labyrinth of the theory of their
own art - this easily percepted. Within the 4 years
of rain it became my own microscopic Macondo. It all meant little, if
nothing What is the frase I look for... Chaotic Dementh.
Ah yes indeed. Been there before, fair lady? A Copper medal I won
at the chill-kill that day: Putrid Run, Salt... Torment,
Thirst. Two fierce feasting parties wishing me warmly welcome in
the aftermath of their own cold war. Neo-colonialistic freaks,
says I. Tempers increase to hatred and vanish - in cataleptic
disorders. An apparatus of something, don t really know what,
remnant of the good that succumbed in man once? The absolute
legion of oddity. Now guess what in the world machina mimesis is?
Machina Mimesis (In the Corner Café)
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