Ideologies not must, just some Words are hunters, they come to seek the bits. The beat is just another sound, rhythm to control our mind. Ideas come to birth, this is what hurts the most. Having them and disown their most precious existence cause their vessel its our form. Amplified echoes of remote pasts and guide them to our precision. A cesure from what was, is the moment of presence from where I am from. There, I am finally, in that end. Words are preyers, they come to heal the bites. The bites that are hurting us, zones left sore to our sight. Visions come to birth, this is what hurts the most. Look and confront the truth in it’s most precious existence cause that’s what we are. Pain and sorrow guiding us to our conciliation. A cesure from what was, is the moment of presence to where I am rising to. There, I am finally, in the end. Words are witness, they come to deposit a bit. A bit of something left in us, bridges that come to connect our touch. Sensations felt even, this is what hurts the most. Feeling and affecting one’s own precious existence cause that’s our end. Meeting and bewildering our becoming anew. A cesure from what I thought was, is the moment of presence of what I am.
Here, I am, the end.