No mince words

couldn't stand the grey shimmer of the day, it's like an old wall that you wish had a wrecking ball sun knocked down, whenever the days are less favourable it's in a hurry, killing time instead of flies. Grandma has to pay, Thailand is opening its borders.

As his nickname might now be, no mask in front of the mouth.
And even if no one eats as hot as he feels, the thankless coolness between November and February is his eternal nasal constriction.

Strangled, guaranteed, distorted in provincial writing

If he is tied down for some reason, he limits himself to minimal contact with the outside world in organic food stores and by means of extensive dating profiles with which he prepares for better times.

Add to that some Nedflieggs and Amazon Breim, and you can get through wintry Austria without noticing the predominant trumpet cultures.

In such cocooning episodes, the goddamn formerly white wall becomes a snuffbox of the artist and inventor's imagination, opened by picking his nose. A Post-It gallery of the metareal.
As if sticky tape could refuse to take part, they can, and sometimes on indeterminate days it snows yellow, blue, green, pink notes on his home office, which is neither home nor office but somehow both.

It's snowing sticky notes, the leaf analogy would also be correct, if winter lasts as long as we are threatened with in Game of Thrones, then one day it might drown in a sea of sticky notes.

No mincing of words and at the moment no mask in front of the mouth but also no foam in front of it, the colorfulness of the notes was wisely chosen in an ironic masterful homage to the rainbow flag and the multicultural intergender ideals of the LBGT idea.

Writing is, like any good

Art

a magical process, a creation. An original imagination is beamed into the spatial-temporal intersection of the moment and its consequences. Art in the sense of the creative, not the normative.

The production is a repetition of the actual, sometimes in a modified form, unless the prohibitions and absurdities of the widespread psychopathological mob make such a repetition difficult or even impossible.

From this perspective, the louse on the liver is not a fully developed rainbow fucker, but at least a sympathizer.

He always admired painters, until the light of the photogenic gave him the opportunity to be one of the actual. Exuberant to the point of movement, one must dance towards the word and pay it the homage it deserves.
But all of these are just outlines of future forms of design, and in his notes and snippets one finds more and more of the impudence of unsupported nonsense instead of philistine damnation. Picasso would have understood him. (W)einstein of course.

These two to…

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