Emotive Concurrency of Ethense

earth irony, literally and quite, and quiet, at night when the magnetics turn upward and the plants see it.  i forgot when they come alive, most and mostly quiet too -- and perhaps the chatter maddens them, thought likely it does not, as they are focused downward in these moments, looking at the new life to make from the soil, as are all the plants and other vegetation on the ground.. and the early worm, yet to come, gets eaten was a joke my friend said, and that is a pretty instantaneous return to earth for that little creature to work for us again, and it does.a

and so we're so and close to earth in these moments and that is what is needed most and the earth known this and the irony is in fact the iron at our core, so dense that nothing can pass through it and so think to make it doubly so, and yet its so heated that it moves, and moves with us, and we, perhaps thus move it, so to encourage others to move, and movement is our living and the planets living, and so as an entity we are the antenna for it, perhaps to just float around and let the other planets know that its alright for the time, being and being as it is is perhaps an envy of other planets, though likely not as we don't yet have an onomatopoeia for planetary systems, and just how oddly they would talk if they could, as we do, and they must have a lot on their minds, and they may be sad to note that we won't make their surface as alive as we can be, or perhaps we go there already, as systems of push and pull combined with the all of us to notice them, and light travels well as it does, light and airy, in particular particles of non-particulates, as in..

Gzzzkt.

the radio chimed in, Q dialed in a setting and placed it on the table.

Aria peers across and they unlistened for another blip and another.

'While we're waiting, Q, tell me more about the planet again?  you know.. the other one. . .'

Q fiddled as he never does with his pocket and looked at the horizon for a gentle bit.

the story continues.

after a pause, of which is the interrupt of ourselves to each other for each other or to rectify the current which is now and ironic and in gluonic microtonic just gluconic and all the chemicals which interrupt electrics, the nowity is transformed, stepped down, and directed, as in DC, and currently, those lines are drawn on our earth as person to person, all the while the ionic alternating tryst of ground plus the other two unfalter as we are still switching from day to night and night to day all the time, from each side of our planet, and as global globules, our types of types are typed and typecast into characters and then words and sentences to sentences, taped up and played as a loop, louped and seen on this light table and photographed, developed.  it a wonder, its in color, like we dream in full motion without framing, or just to the left or right, dead centered is ne'er a place to be, only to appear to walk as we take in the sidelines as our direction.

and its calm, this time life and the other - but mostly life, thankful for that -- for which the evidence that is the other is not well for the any, or any matters or facts about it, its a non-whole bummer, and just thinking about it, for our planet, hence ourselves, is a power suck of the kind to atrophy synapses clogged and not cleared for lack of love, or the temporary displacement of such a creature, as known sometimes for some and always for very even and few though it would and should be all the time, if just, and just a bit more and more, to realize that's all we really are to the planet, how else would it know, us?  

a posulation of complete and fully totality of love at every non-measured second, which aren't really seconds as its a continuity of a loop of time, and that time and those times and these times are all the time, and all is time, and time is all of everything, and so.

the gaps between these times and those times are the spacings in our brains memory, as an animal of itself, feeding on patterns and making little nests to visit, and who does the brain visit beside ourselves all the time... to escape a brain leaves a mass of atoms to be held or used or abused by another, and this brings us to psycho-active medication, as non-understood by science whatsoever, and thrown into bags and into peoples heads so as to appear to function in a normality which does not exist, and never existed except the shared belief that is might, and those thoughts carry on, and to be the same all the time throughout time is normal?  what a stunt, and stunted and the actual living going on is hence so protected and so secretive for fear of these patients, though patiently treated and treatable to participate, and with likely, well we provide sometimes without true love, and we do so for the fact that we love, and to provide what is desired, and some people desire to be normal, or desire to be around people who seem to be, that we create that, through chemistry at times when we cannot by our own chemistry, which should be the natural kind and kind.

if there was any a medication which has trodden our supply of chemicals it is those that maintain a presence in water, mucking up even and odd electrics when it should barely pass through a distilled or purity of such a combined gas'd set of particles, as friends.

water is our first friend, after the electrics of course, and water is so good a friend, that wherever it travels it maintains a body, as it maintains our body, and bodies of, multiplied.  and the electrics are for our brains and our hearts, which do not contain water, and the heart is our blood and the brain are our very slight and unsighted boxy ooze of chemicals, in a shop tinker and drive ourselves around as desire, and what is that desire besides and alongside the desire of others, and our planet, again and again and again.  the same message.  love and be alive, although its much simpler than that even and not odd at all, that is the flip side, the return, when you give back, to ground, and that is our cycle.

precipitously, the water too, cycles, and the skies try and clean our muckery and divide out our messes into minerals, which are then rock, make their own lattices and settle down, and run through the stream beds for the fish to turn all sorts of iridescent colors, perhaps so they can get laid and perhaps its so they can be seen by a bear and eaten, fruitfully.  

and so we're in cities now, which is good, tho the ground which helps is travel fast ne're lets us travel with full effect of our purpose, with a bit of waste and more and more of that as we put the earth on hold, like a cell call that we're barely listening to as we drive to a place we believe will make us happy, or make us a collection of papers and things to make us happy, and they do, and they make us.. and its not by choice, although choice brings us to it, at least once, and once was all that was required for the particular loop of tape to start.

and we're still and in this night, and many things could be said about the air, and our conditioned conditioners, and how the water hangs about, or perhaps the fog which sometimes rolls in by the bays who allow themselves to populate with the people who desire such a climate.  and it is people, through dreamery, at least somewhere, know, that create our weather and here in san francisco we're known for it, in pictures and pictured, and thought carries us so far, that very truly a visitor who expects fog will get it for that morning they expect it so purely and honestly, we know that is the time, perhaps he should be a weatherman for that instant, unpaid and absolute, but who would believe him and who would we call and how would that change the weather?  perhaps its good that those paid never get it right.

and Q grinned a bit at aria.. yes this was coming from the radio, and they just listened for the bits which rolled to a metre, and the tonality of the voice and the tap tap, in key keyed and not too keyed up to deliver a purity, as in our sands and just why did we think that?

'sands.. hmm.. dunno it must be thinking of something else, ' Q tapped the boxy metal and it carried on.

a consciousness, known in vocality is our place to keep a voice which is true, by either its gently honesty or its voice so pure and truthful that it cannot be heard or only as an idea, a continuous idea which to say it so is too complex, but honestly its the truth which moves each electron and in our synapse makes it fire, because that is its choice, option key as it were, the one you have to know about to tap it out on a keyboard, with shortcuts to get you there on demand and faster than anybody else, because you know and it provides a continuity to keep and love in continuity, and ever and onward, etc.

. . .

44 lines this time about, and that's half the other in twice the space, as spread and out and about it all the time that this is that and the other are continued and continuations.  coded justly and while to say it is time, is always and evident, it may be quite well to know that a time to cease is never mostly ever a time to stop any form of truth, and as known truth doesn't speak, nor make silly contractions to save time, or perhaps it does like that shortcut, shorthand long idea, tap tap machinery in room where what is said is absolute truth, and how else to record it but to say it and the efforts utilized to type up these messages, is and should be by a trained professional who would never work in an environment of untruth, as she or he may falter at the keys, and that would be known, perhaps a special drop in the letter L again, so deft and non-obvious that you'd need to look at the printed paper to see the discrepancy and pauses in the actual ink on the paper, where truth was misspoke and interrupted a cycle of electricity, as it was carried around and loosened like a string temporarily forgotten. 

its time to vote soon, and as we should and be participants all the time, tho those set aside in buildings to sheild their hearts from us, or perhaps they need their hearts to work for each other to make things a better place, and to know is ours and theres and they are us, and wouldn't it be nice.

well and well politics is a funny beast in this day and every day and age and our news is certain as it is in itself and now even and balked and injected simultaneously and when we look from our past and present we may report in our usual fashion as to provide all sides, and that has very likely skewed the news from even the b.f. skinner days approach, as advertised, they may say in small print with large images and a characteristically fake-able timbre of inflection, and eye contact into a machinery that was designed for looks, and to be looked at, direct and directly although it comes in air waves and not direct as person to person current and currently, current.  and they're on the other side of town.

. . .

its a funny time, to be a planet, again and again we may now say to it as discoverable.  and making the best out of it is what we do, and do, well, well.  and a falter, like the stenograph is noticed in ink on sidewalks, and on walls and busses and although cleared, is visible under each layer where it has been seen before, and even painted on with our minds and animated, as in that puddle again with the trapped avatar, or was she just.. that she was seen in a light which warbled to a whim of anther she was trying to help, and luckily a coat was not thrown into the reflection to walk across.

. . .

and, as with truth, like the random number collector from a computer system, the content which is driven off its generator is wane-able, and by the creator whose mind may tire of a particular topic, or perhaps it is the listener who tires, or cares as much as the author gives to each present and presently electrically observable atomic lattice of creatureity.

this has been aqua q from the labs of isle of man and a continuation of continuity, as it were, and brought to you by the letter L, in a timely piece of timepieced peacery of the kind that lays down, chips.  the list goes on and this the rhymey punchy bit at the end is just the next bits beginning.

well, its 111, minutable minutes of and past tensed little side alley in the unspoken tangent which was a clubby club frequented with a pair of headphones in a mass-in separation and a perception of separation until interrupted noisy silence, and the visual is slightly painful in these moments to hold and tap about, and that is how we cease for a brief fired second.  and time as materials, here we go.  perhaps the editor would be, now and in kind. —  aqua q c 3 w