The balance ongoing.
Time can never be mastered or doctored per se.
The arrogance of forwards and backwards, the stagnation, the err.
Collectively we aim for better with a backward romance.
The sand, silt or fines within any once fluvial regression, transgression margin, or historic fold in time.
The pull however unique it may be in the modern day, or as time marches on.
With heartaches, loss, betrayal of senses.
Space for love, love is to die. Sometimes love is to live in another way.
What is love.
That same err.
Not the sweet nothings of pepe le pew.
Not the manipulation of the known aluminum chromium “waste” line of the atmosphere, increased planes to see how jet fuel shall disappear.
When it wraps to a human head, takes out a predator bird.
“When in a human head though- look what we can collectively do”
Yea, na, na, err.
Love.
Impasse.
Accept the clock.
Fast and slow.
Every nano second to hour of waste creation though repetition, impulse.
Expansion, contraction.
Like a human chain-smoking tobacco.
Those fake bonds that create datasets and seem to play a role for economic stability while still requiring copious amounts of energy.
The corrosion and chemical weathering within infrastructure of all realms thus created.
Love in the economy, the damage of destruction.
I could debate that one.
But how could I ever decide alone, and how could we ever not collectively have the “need” to have social ethics. Thus, reverting to the romantic.
Then the sonic screwdriver to the head that, is supposed to be the “the hero”, the doctor, not a Disney frontier in itself?
*Cough* Kim Wall Denmark mate.
The pathogens designed for maximum security prisons, to be incapacitated and controlled by frequency, [ an Indian woman searching for thread, materials, a blonde woman packing meat-your meat] that anthropogenic creation traveling out in gas leak plumes into public domains without management.
Err. Der.
“Oh, a deer, I might eat that dear raw”
Redb 