Paris August Whispered Bamboo Sleep In Flight Entertainer

August Gloop Rhapsody.

Since Covid is twelve Parises in twelve Augusts, staying up all night so as to come close to what the end really is, like the lion who Manetho says never sleeps, almost for those days a feral life, don’t let sleep be derivative, deprive you of everything, of all your collateral, losing nothing of the end you seek to become so as to be released into inverted sweetness, of all they tried to exorcise, you think of what your enemies did and how belated they now are in all, allow to destroy their own rap sheets long after they think you gone forever, this is what the streets mean, those you would still love were they even to have your mercy and your necessary curses in some kind of mind, Orestes was forgiven in the end, if even a single one had known how so long they did not become a wall of blinking eyes, all identical, not even knowing ourselves as such, Argus Panoptes Ubi your universal silent treatment is (not) the only fascism, but there again, this is not why you stay awake as one by one the lights go out in dms across the time zones, snow is general all across the universes and multiverses, assured that bitcoin will be the first of us to make a trillion mean something means something to you and I, bright star, green light, green ray, my angel thee and there and three and everything there are no angels, green star, bright ray, bright mind, and an angelic flicker, shimmer, brinking and glee.

At dawn there is just enough light and life to tell a story about a tweet about her friend assembling a pistol in a Parisian park, but no you will never tell stories, you will never give in to fiction, you will only form an enormous rebellion party on the fourth of August 2021, wandering through those same streets of Paris in August August August August, green bright radiant star and angelic mind, time’s square pillows since square pillows are all they have on the Proustian beach, your father who told you of giggling and snuggling, out on the balcony where there was more human warmth and merriment precisely because the end was near, thank god for my family, their loyalty to me in my beautiful mess, genealogy and birthing, to still have a Coranachan belly button birthday, being put here to write through the nite in impermanence’s TL, who was not born by and of and for this expanse of streets, when your hair was long and Covidian, and nobody knew this was part of its plan.

Here you are, when your eyes first saw Paris abandoned like a set of burnt out police cars in Los Angeles 2020, a desert island, set up for us by Proustian remembrance, which is to say Poincaré recurrences way beyond Moynihan’s TL of extinction, omg I didn’t even consciously make that connection myself tho obviously also yes, the tweet is actually referencing about ten other things at least in my head, I’ve not slept in four days lol, did I already say that, or only sparrow in the air slept, I’m more and more flying in flight, I mean as well, sleeping in flight, feeding on the light, a misty-ass rain, a shining-ass sun, the near-future perlocutionary roll of co-extinctions still listening in the crook of the bay towards the green and bright ray.