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Friday, February 22, 2019

two cents.

'in my opinion, the third thought is up for trade. But, cost of production requires more than two thirds the process it takes to construct the present traders' profit margin that's at stake. before you can process the losses being accumulated, I must state that to begin with, the idea of human trade was just that, an existence of space. meaning that all that is built on an unfinished platform isn't safe. lest it be forgotten, left behind, or simply classified as the age of the slave. Yet many took the step. A leap for the tree in the middle, as some books would say. It was the first time that white existence could exert fear after millions and millions of years of living with a dark face. Anyway, there comes a time when the idea of physical competition becomes extinct or rather, fake. Here is where there's the lack of bliss, ignorance ignored, molded, perceptions lacking a hardened existence of opinions-turned base. Termed new findings, but ancient to any afrikan Sage. A foundation, roots, then one will know how many double antendras one can couple with a reality that constricts dual existence into a singular phrase. God. Oh lawd. Oh how god can multiply the individual idea of capitalizing on toungues into familial existence. Or simply, a gauge. I, Ishmael Mitishamba, send a Paige.'

Mitishamba ~ no slave in my blood
'green lineage'

Thursday, February 14, 2019

Fear in heights! 4 fifths of one.

There's an idea that exists that belongs to me. I am He. Look, as the diagrams heat and my soul depletes I can't find any cost worth to keep discreet. But just one price I am unwilling to pay to give any person a chance to surmise what I am saying. Living on the margins of life, a pure economist, yet disappointed that the present structure is nothing but pray. Gambling lives away. Saying that it is god who went astray. To lead you, as His son to live for death so that you can be nothing but prey. Hunted by the beutiful certainty of eventual nonexistance, where to the living it's an argument that's grey. Not black and white because at the end of it all it is energy I have transferred into Her preexisting fort. Or so I say. And so to begin with, I told Her words, She saved. Maybe She wrote, or what She wrote turned Her work against all grains. Even when it rained. On and on I sway into Her presence which She betrays. All I know are books.

Mitishamba ~ words don't decay.
"the green act"