the rapture called and said, "hey nur. what is the deal yo."
nur said, "honestly it's not like i haven't been tryin' but seriously i just walk around confused every day. like life has no purpose. belittling my sense of direction at every turn."
"ah. circles," said the rapture, and fell down in donut holes.

San francisco makes me feel backwards motion. Hills. Backwards mind metal. It seems like... I have to reconsider my whole existence. Up and downs to existential crisis.
Sculpture making lumps with my hands, is simple & divine.
All else seems like trash and falls disappointed when it hits the can.
I don't think I want to sit and talk to people anymore. I don't want to learn people. I cannot be learned. It feels. Real, holographic bullshitters. I dunno. Sriously and I've known this for a long time. I just want to touch people and not say anything ever.
I just want to touch bodies and touch tools and touch instrument s and keep my mouth shut.
But through the mouth is one of the ways we breathe.
Blast off.
Another courtesy call to the sky and disconnected strings lingering, not falling away. Shreds, pieces of the past. Stray threads. In a moment of dillusion as the weaving takes place. Process imagines. Patterns all the same re-emmerging. My mother whose mother. My nails whose fingers. That linger there a little too long or not long enough. Time monsters. Slow and fast people. WOVEN TOGETHER.
Godamnit. where am I?

Okay. Back to the circus regime.

the put the hands on things plan.

put the hands on things and stand away plan.
as the backfire plans explode.

gracefully you learn to draw it up with your hands in the air. Because you are a bird. And you are that much smarter than everyone who is also you.

And that thing. The ticking one. The time tocker. Tickles you. Reminds.RE-MINDS you.

meditative and all is not lost.

much beautiful weavings on your skin,

makign such beautiful music.

enough to make a single man cry after his soul dies from moving too fast, or too slow.


matters not either way.