Plunder bunnying after The Idea is a reflectivity old as sea along with its wretched desolation/delivery Tribulation piracy. 

And I know now Stinky was a robbery that devoured – that Em is a flesh eating flower, and that it gave birth to my beautiful treachery – I know thats the cruces. That madness is (in many ways like falling into a) musical key – oceanic and tectonic.

But – as I shift the transports toward here, toward theatre (as way of dealing with it) decidedly in promotion of the notion that I can make myself into a fucking deadline, everything begins to conglutinate – knowing “actors” arrive and together we steal a way through the Arc – the Magic of Arc –

Begins proto-religiously the sublime “rotations.” Sublime intensities become enveloped in possibility as theatre, as treasure and measure, and potency and proportion, my heart capitulates to the Turning Winds where patently mills depth notations  – littered and slough with beauty and madness and desire etc. 

Theme runs into person and Romance (of the fucking Rose) gets capitalized, turns posey and ecliptic meanwhile spelunking after “quantities” – ripe & tenebrous opacities – that hell hath devoured! And sounding, chews off foot – for Achilles freedom.