‘At once I
knew I was not magnificent’ resonates, despite it being the defining line of
lessons past. It is the prismatic light, the Milan Mrkusich realisations in
ethereality. These abstractions draw me back to the calm, hallow-bright storm; before
the piquing of every remarkable emotion one can conjure in the name of music.
Gulag Orkester
does churn too.
It is the
orgasm of music, that like the cursed Lady of Shallot , sees the helmut and the
plume. It is the precision in
‘Out flew the
web and floated wide
The mirror
cracked from side to side
The curse is
upon me, cried
The Lady of
Shallott’
It is in the
precision of knowing exactly when to lay your aching bones;
To dream of
the ‘really nice’ words that flitted butterfly-like in your stomach.
x
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