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"