Bifflechips

she carries it ‘round her neck like a crucifix; she writes it on the scapulae of deer and human skulls. in her pile of oracle bones, lies her faith. and when the snow falls, her fingers become frozen in scripture; she’s left muttering the names of her god again and again. it matters not which words leave her mouth because god is everything everything until she was nothing.

I I've for long known that beauty is not a sum, where units of measurements could consist of physical attributes, or of anything that could be perceived by bodily senses. The vivid, lush green of a finally quenched apprehension is just as graceful and lovely as the wrinkled and sunburnt blues of a distant memory's wall flowers. Beauty is a spectrum of vigour, the fluctuations of ideas, concepts, actions and thoughts, which become their own purposeless musical colours and flavours. No consensus creates allure, only a great, breathless leap into the disarray of affective venture may lead the consecrated energy to emerge. II I have seen the li