The essence of creativity is a boredom with the familiar and a tolerance for the indefinite with a longing for stability.
Cruel world, but nice lawns for the dead I say, more nice mental lawns for the living! Mow that shit, homies clean out the cobwebs wake up get with the program open your fucking eyes and scream out in the terror which confronts you every morning in the bathroom mirror.
Recognize the thin lipid veil covering the truth within you, keeping it from spilling out all over the floor.
It might have something to do with the symphony of cells playing the tune of molecules directed by a whisper guided by a suspicion of it all.
Maybe it has something to do with the epigenetic speciation of the lizard king who, in a nocturnal battle with the leech and the crab refines his being with a suit of armor spiked yellow and green
glancing askance at the other lizards who wait for the deliverance of a mythical truth.
Life is glorious peril where the only true path is the self-aware incorportion of peril into truth so that the snake eats its tail in a never-ending feast of the nothingness that is all.
The cloud of language covers the pure beam of crystalline vision which cuts through the fog of existence
Splinters of glass enter soft flesh unannounced and gradually make themselves known searching, pulling, tearing, pain of ruby shards burrowing deeper with each press of agony it is these glimmers of insight tainted with the carnal stain that drip into our sleeping waters looking for unprotected lizards lounging on the rocks of a tidal kingdom.
Process leads to endstates which are processes leading to themselves it is a foolish lizard who lounges on the rocks, waiting for it all to happen, for his anscestors did not wait to rise out of the waters and claim the primordial America.