Across cultures, it’s hard to deny the overarching knowledge of and respect for maternal femininity. Like a birth of intellect at wealth. How weird do you think I’ve become? But it don’t matter in the grand. Like apathy in pithy, there’s an overwhelming instinct to believe, whether or not confusion becomes before all the MK Ultra cocktail-infused Stockholm syndrome. We know who people are, and I garden. I’ll marry into a Teams’ OneWorld 開発, so the distance of cohesion makes the smack upside my head feel more like a beat. In order to credit the mass:
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Feeling like I’m dancing while I’m falling sleeping wasted on the train almost vomiting but swallowing because fuck white privilege. So I hop out at Mets Willits’ Point and only walk about a mile of Flushing Bay till I see them sex workers just looking for a friend, because this last stop on the 7-train traveler is broke. An’ you go with it like at a knock on your door around 7 PM alone in ya place, like “WHO THE FUCK?”
Turns out you’re driving the neighbors to a Korean rave in some karaoke/spa joint that’s mad steamy and you dancing because them rocks not gonna circulate that steam themselves. So arms wavy in a warehouse — not the warehouse you expected, but the RKO theater off Norther is now “underground” in an illegal way, but who the fuck give a fuck, so rip. And your friend is on the lights like some weird DJ vibe, but OK.
Murdered out the club; your big toe hits the warehouse exit and immediately: infinity. Reverse, and you’re approached by someone familiar, maybe. They stab you to death. Walking out the club, next to your friends, laughing as bottled water falls from the corners of your mouth, you hit the unlock button to your car, and a knife plunges through your rib cage, into your heart, and death immediately ensues.
After laughing with friends, you look back and see someone without shoes arguing with security(/gymnasts/trainers[???]) when a bullet catches you mid-temple into death. Asleep in bed awaiting rest to overcome this dimension as patience subsides into an absence of consciousness, a shadow emerges — still smelling like your back-seat — and slowly stabs you breathless, one hand over your mouth. Teams’ OneWorld 開発 is the last gasp of atypical critic on this decades’ multitude of live sound systems.
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