~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
“It is an existing investment: the spectator comes here, only insofar, as a blow may result in a beheading, a total celebration which would reveal my true structure” – Boris Izsus
& Spoke as Thus:
IF, you displace, the Face, in Suspect—the Body, would not only, not be the same anymore, but would open up to a Trial, at the Edge of—
WHOSE head, must eventually roll?
Beyond reason, there is a desire-------------------------------->[ing] a bursting
being something to be decapitated, obscened, the Shifter’s Voice muscles the propensity to
consume in joy-------------------------------------->a cluster of digestions ultimately
I silenced FRAMEFALL—but there is always room for laughter as it’s all forgotten details because attention, arrested on a syntactic system
collapse----------------------------------------->a confessionary YAWP, which
is the entrance of an almost I’m so apologetic blowstance at the moment, the Thought becomes a becoming disturbed, the belly becomes the belly becoming Swelled the mouth, it’s forming becomes, The Mouth forming within the thickness of skin, the
th—act:
“my body is no longer my own[ed]”
becomes the lack of a Prodigious Production.
Thus, the Space occupying an occupation of every trace of my motherfucking face, becomes lack of ground constructing the
Fall: “I’m a tourist, in the isolation of my own SelfSame-Image.”
Thus the capacity of a force of an underFACE assemblage, an expository variation of a bitch-slap—of the body, where
‘being’, real motherfucking
Being---------------------------------------àis being a ferocious appetite
in constant opposition of what is against—the opponent, potent in pleasure, perceiving a jaw agape, throat into, desiring as a Beast, a bowel & growl the form I longed to be again without map or repetitions
i.e.
I’ll encompass this entire Bull---------------------------------------> stomp the Voice in my hear roam
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The body thus, shall be composed in the ass of a simulation stimulation & holding itself, ravished unto its own forming ūn—face is a system, closed upon itself, folding itself into a structure that’ll disclose the movement, which a nonmovement indefinitely dormant from the external sign, upon
Body, wrinkle of the brow now: that most sureface of things.
X marks the motherfucker deciphering the breath & now exhaust. The face again, in whose depths is the power of a private
language, Voice: that Inner Virus of Veiled a Silence
Thus, to examine this language itself, this dance in which, the signs of each movement do not refer to what they indicate, but to what is becoming, as if that unexpected signature that marks the entrance of The Body in the
Eye: a Hunger coming, rushing in------------------------------->The pores in sweet [sweat] that denotes:
we exist only insofar as here rummaging
& if there is one actualization, it is the form of a degree of displacement that cuts along all the same in our own inner
Ecstatic Flight/Fight
& spoke as thus:
I’m beyond fucking Parasitic
