Electric blue synaesthesia blips through every movement and the sight of your smile I experience in trailing tickling fingers blushing through my skin, rutting through the tracks in my head. Good natured gestures gleaned through television screens have taught me that I have no boundaries and you no limits and that mirrors are meant to swallow whole hours in contemplation of WHERE DO MY LIPS END WHERE DOES MY FACE BEGIN? Oh, there is nothing like the latenight mainlining of information with heavenly tainted needles and grimy baby hooks scag scag sca scag scag cheap and straight and whole clashing vibrations of easy. I am a face undressing A poor scapegoated mirror peeling the processes of translated being and making it the inept collage of wondering pity- Flattened, like my own sense of selection and morality under the duress of incoherent sunsets and their diffusing abrasiveness that lie about the true hue and tremors of your prospects. The ad machine generates directionless grittiness and one time holiness all in waves of electric cavernous cascades Empty blue blue water falls to no source.