स्त्री दोग ब्लुएस & Hues

So I'm thinkin' after the Aughts we might leave the park at Queen Anne Gate and walk down Queen’s Gate Terrace. Walk robotically down and down and down.
Psychic automatism in a state most pure, by which one proposes to communicate -- verbally, by means of the written word, or by some other manner-- a virtual performance of whatever conceptual razz-a-ma-tazz might feel age appropriate. Time has come today. As it was in the beginning, aye, there’s the rub, eh wot?

We must prepare ourselves to look simultaneously at the river banks laden with Mickey D’s and David Blaine hanging from multicolored boxes (see: Boxing Day, Lady Day, foggy day in, and/or You Deserve a Break Today) – and to, or at, the older scene where Iris Murdoch’s stories took place, which formulate or foment-- your call-- reflection re, like, after the Romans first settled here v. the city’s constant transformation against earlier versions of itself. Against interpretation.

Waves, raves. Knaves, staves. The pink claws of the morning can be so primal. The charismatic adjacence of the Thames implies spirit, and, maybe, a loss of self in cosmic unconsciousness dictated by stray dog thought-- the absence of control exercised by reason, exempt from any aesthetic or moral concern. That’s what I’m talkin’ about. Bringin' in the sheathes!

Yes, any variation seems to remain a great-barrier-reefer 'twixt our inner sense of becoming and the non-human character of the outer world, which, according to that ancient materialist Lucretius should not be characterized as either one of becoming or being, creation or destruction. Three phases of Brahman. I mean, hey, don’t put me in a box!