I read Castaneda throughout my in between years, in my teen years where I woke to my Na'will and dreamt that juan-carlos floated through all the mundane-bits that we do ... but he assisted me too, with death-awareness pattern-recognition; these trails left behind by Natures foxy-moves, 'til you could read its language, its omen-nomenclature, and not need to know what it meant, then take another breath while brother-death counted what was left...
artists are often autogamous, like jelly-fish, especially when they're disturbing meaning in a rhythmic pulsation, exciting to fluorescence a deeply subtext'd verse; but don't mistake their stinging strophe for arrogance, that's just fierce presence, moved by waves of astonishment, cascading through their nervous and vascular system; they’re spontaneously overflowed ( sea through ) and while reaching with their iridescent tentacle, they'll simply, elegantly, fluoresce a gleam in your eyes...
