Our hearts like broken plates strewn about the table, ready to be eaten from, it is no wonder the food spills on to the table, the spillage accumulating, the actual becoming the art. The experience becoming the expressed. A piece of Julian Schnabel. Before his films. What is messier than love? What is messier than a person who cannot grasp what love is, and how he needs it?
Our need for order is strong. Even an animal (on the most part) does not eat where he shits. Yet in orderliness it is not with standing that we get bored and create messes.
Praying for peace then is an interesting matter. Pray you might not actually get it. For if you do, your pathetic-ness will be then the sole reason for impending war.
Conversely, if you wage war each and every day- like I do, ensures that peace will follow.
Some days I feel we all live in one big fucking landfill.
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