one day I plan to stand in a little village where faces of fans brand the film in camera canisters while the bands deliver pillars of verses and fillers I can't even begin to understand. and, on demand are candid photos on postmarked postcards holding bold ampersands and folk catching glowsticks flipping through the air...
aerial shots of polyglots dropping molly and hashtagging "acid" in ultralavender tattoos on lower back chasms casually zoom out and allude to a sea of congruent blues and congenial greens. freed cosmologic apparatuses hack away at brain matter as The Universe searches for an Emergence called "Earth"; turns out it's tucked away in a couple synecdoches known as "People" and are far more potent than a black hole engulfing the whole of a golden supernova...
novice Rastas proceed to swallow a bottle of ayahuasca and follow a squadron of newts and iguanas until they morph into an ouroboros; churros thrown at a hole in the tree quickly mold into a symbol of infinity.
effectively, acceptance, diminishing timidity and succinctly increasing instances of idiosyncrasies leave People unrigid-ly thinking of The Universe... while The Universe secretly dreams of me...
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