It Is Only Sound That Remains

Why should I stop, why? the birds have gone in search of the blue direction. the horizon is vertical, vertical and movement fountain-like; and at the limits of vision shining planets spin. the earth in elevation reaches repetition, and air wells changes into tunnels of connection; and day is a vastness, which does not fit into narrow mind of newspaper worms. why should I stop? the road passes through the capillaries of life, the quality of the environment in the ship of the uterus of the moon will kill the corrupt cells. and in the chemical space after sunrise there is only sound, sound that will attract the particles of time. why should I stop? what can a swamp be? what can a swamp be but the spawning ground of corrupt insects? swollen corpses scrawl the morgue's thoughts, the unmanly one has hidden his lack of manliness in blackness, and the bug... ah, when the bug talks, why should I stop? cooperation of lead letters is futile, it will not save the lowly thought. I am a descendant of the house of trees. breathing stale air depresses me. a bird which died advised me to commit flight to memory. the ultimate extent of powers is union, joining with the bright principle of the sun and pouring into the understanding of light. it is natural for windmills to fall apart. why should I stop? I clasp to my breast the unripe bunches of wheat and breastfeed them sound, sound, only sound, the sound of the limpid wishes of water to flow, the sound of the falling of star light on the wall of earth's femininity the sound of the binding of meaning's sperm and the expansion of the shared mind of love. sound, sound, sound, only sound remains. in the land of dwarfs, the criteria of comparison have always traveled in the orbit of zero. why should I stop? I obey the four elements; and the job of drawing up the constitution of my heart is not the business of the local government of the blind. what is the lengthy whimpering wildness in animals sexual organs to me? what to me is the worm's humble movement In its fleshy vacuum? the bleeding ancestry of flowers has committed me to life. are you familiar with the bleeding ancestry of the flowers?