Spilt Presence

While it has never been said that to enjoy music one must, it has, alas, so often occurred. This, being in the truest sense of the word nature, has passed so often those whose consciousness is bare to the, and in total some, parlance of our idiom: when our senses derive into height, when our reasons fragment into hope, and when our being crouches wide and smart, we are but hardly - we spend, if you will, the turn. But as, but as, oh but as for tokenism, who can? Nor I, but we, and us, traitingly, might. I must begin to dig here and decompartmentalise, so some say, our very ordinary. Forever dipping, twisting and stalking, it (I say it!) may not be such a bad thing. Only a jillock would agree, but yet it is true - truer than many great myths of our time even. Rings become pearls as mode finds will and every fashion, it doesn't matter what, it doesn't matter what, will die. To clutch this to one's plate receives the whole, voidless of heed nor neither. Splendid. We had, long ago, time, but now we have no. All felt away, it fractures and once again selects itself in honour. This, my friend, is all.

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