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 A nothing from nowhere cast his words to a world wide wind, and got in your eye. |
Who said Matthew Sweet? Get Back To You (Your Beer Will Stay Cold) I hear you’re looking for a time deviation To loop through any existing door, Unlock it and tear wide, call out your, “Mary!” Because, something left inside is missed…now? What stirred ya? If it’s your cat, Fred, I have to say a bigger fear awaits if you go and kick that very deliberate vile… in theory. It’s not a probable comeback. I saw you tromping down the street again, disregarding all the rain mess of mud. No fire, as that long hair trailed in pursuit. Truth? What is it you’re looking for? If it’s your lost dog, chum, did you offer a reward? Unless a bigger fear. Is it her? Between you and you, what can I do but observe unassisted Hail Mary down cobblestone. Fire and brimstone could get your feet, but you fly over that shit; a blur, I swore. Only my old man tore into me harder, as some demon he sought, that I did see. Whatever mirrors you reposition, angled, you can’t get back to her through there. Whatever lie you told yourself, just know I’m here with a cold beer — when you get back…to you. 7.10.25 I don’t know, but I know that someone doesn’t know. And nobody else witnesses like I do. *Pops a top* Did you ‘track’ all that? We all know our ‘rights’. |
| Stirred, as the song and another video from this AI production company made the salient point — money. Sweetly, beauty you will die; hidden from you brews a lie they tell in their poem’s that bloom before two eyes — a graphite stick on white. Slowly each medium is replaced. Only money changes hands. Briefly beauty hush — silenced. No nattering words further — but gossip they invent as lies you now whisper. Codes squire targets. Nostalgia is mortified, as all old stories — moral-less. Only richly desire remains. You would want escaping time to stop, implode your big bang birth. But, the soul-less dance on, smile wrong. But, distant eyes, cannot sway, look the other way. Pay as they go, celebrate money and flesh thirst. Yes, readied now, for the truly unscrupulous… Where were you when reality died? Do you remember the poet who took care to warn of world demise before lights out. What could delay or better prepare? Did you hurl your rocks at truth instead? You distrusted. Money delivers you…to here… the end of a reality story. Project, if you will, five years from now? Do you pilot hovercraft on a planet green? Or, they lied, kept your worth, and note: any remaining trespassers will be shot, as the currency they print…value-less. 7.9.25 I’m not a sci-fi, future-traveling writer. I’ll aim further clarity in morning, pray for a less direct end, aim crystal clarity and resounding note in a visceral sense. AI doesn’t have to kill, if you wisely reinvent with strategy. Employ AI tools to inspire writing. Encourage and do not malign writers, if you are to act ignorant of technology. It can help you streamline, give those brain storms more than wishful dreams of solvency. Maybe, celebrate flagship authors with actual credibility for a change. Some of you are worthy of note, being sold short. Put your rocks down. Sleep. Sweet dreams soon come. If I could spend less time on Writing ML, I’d have more time to focus on activities, stomp around the site greeting every bloom. If that doesn’t pay the bills, I can see a darkness in my 18-year-old predicted statistical tunnel re-arriving. I dislike these end games — for this world. Look beyond the edge of each of your worlds for a better view. Or, grab the essentials before each light goes out. I had planned 30 more years… Some great music on that YouTube channel. I get notified on all the latest AI created videos. Oh, and remember, art imitates life…not the other way around. Think: preference for symmetry or slightly less than perfect? Replace the expression-abused word ‘perfect’ with ‘ideal’ in your brain’s programming, as AI won’t know the difference…but can learn…from you…artist. — Citizen Journalist (not anyone’s “messenger”) |
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