In my movie life the heads of missing children stream into homes on every milk carton the little blue faces useful only for recognizing that what you love most will disappear a recognition that lay over you Marcel across Albertine reconstitute yourself around me as you awaken please don't go.
When the long low Holt Reinhardt horns come birds flicker in and out of being along with the segments of wire they perch on. Everyone has perfect pixie hair. Every movement trails veils of pink and yellow. Garlands of fine lines drift through the air. The sound is a crumpling instability.
Direction is someone who walks through a dream saying “This is a dream.” Direction is someone who moves outside of the dream and further into it at the same time.
The movie tracks the coastline of gesture and slows until another being tickled becomes Lee Harvey Oswald. Climates of violence blossom in every caress.
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A curious little sequence for your amusement from a new map of fading empire I'm working on.