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Could it be? All this time, the answer we've searched for has been looking at us in the face. The answer to the puzzle. The unearthly status. Flying on his own wings. Prooving points with the brain.
An untapped source of potential. Enigmatic creativeness in abundance. He was lost all this time, in his own brain? Fully awake but, still in some protective coma? His ideas, his visions, his art . Locked away from everyone since the beginning. He has always been co-dependant on those ideas, on the flair which has gotten him notable credit.
It was locked away in the only place he knew and the only place no-one could reach. A sane man could go in and find nothing but a kaleidoscope of lost thoughts which lack any real logical connections. Until today that is. He has declared war on the world. That built-rage, no-one understanding, being alone and having superior thoughts. It's given him a creative urge. An edge, of sheer impulse. The source, the mainstream of ideas, the actual essence of creative thinking.
A thousand lifetimes in a million cultures could not have influenced anymore so. He was at one with affairs. Only the stars in the sky could dig deeper puzzles in his mind. A paradox of time and space. Aha. Paradox. Using intertextuality and icons of a forgotten era cannot be used as another means of credit. Not today.
Inter-woven ideas of his short life. He wrote and drew and spoke and of all importance he, that boy, lived . He was a Fanatic . Eternal ramblings on and on until he could be absorbed. Even if no-one read it and it still managed to reach 100. Am-poss-ee-bleh.
Indeed, people questioned that those ideas would cease. The source would over-flow or just fadeaway. The fabric, the texture of which neurones are stimulated. Unravelling. Artistic, forever more. As long as he is in control of those ideas, as long as time doesn't pass him by sneakily, those messages will never leave him. He is the only holder of his minds key. In his sleep he unlocks a million doors but only opens 3 or 4.
And so it brings him to today. Now electrolytes and motor neurones work at a billion a second. The flow of conditional values and beliefs dominate his interior structure. Despite the recent release of hormones, he maintains that skill, that he was born with. Not all the females in the world could contaminate him. He feeds on life. So no matter what, a transcript, an evaluation, a Man-U-Script or a simple mock cannot halt his progress. He now stands up on his own two feet and leans on his opinions.
He now looks at the sky, clouds and stars. The blue ocean. The happy faces. The gullible idiots. He no longer stands in awe asking Why? He now smiles to himself and walks away bare-footed on the beach thinking; It just is.
He feeds on life.
An untapped source of potential. Enigmatic creativeness in abundance. He was lost all this time, in his own brain? Fully awake but, still in some protective coma? His ideas, his visions, his art . Locked away from everyone since the beginning. He has always been co-dependant on those ideas, on the flair which has gotten him notable credit.
It was locked away in the only place he knew and the only place no-one could reach. A sane man could go in and find nothing but a kaleidoscope of lost thoughts which lack any real logical connections. Until today that is. He has declared war on the world. That built-rage, no-one understanding, being alone and having superior thoughts. It's given him a creative urge. An edge, of sheer impulse. The source, the mainstream of ideas, the actual essence of creative thinking.
A thousand lifetimes in a million cultures could not have influenced anymore so. He was at one with affairs. Only the stars in the sky could dig deeper puzzles in his mind. A paradox of time and space. Aha. Paradox. Using intertextuality and icons of a forgotten era cannot be used as another means of credit. Not today.
Inter-woven ideas of his short life. He wrote and drew and spoke and of all importance he, that boy, lived . He was a Fanatic . Eternal ramblings on and on until he could be absorbed. Even if no-one read it and it still managed to reach 100. Am-poss-ee-bleh.
Indeed, people questioned that those ideas would cease. The source would over-flow or just fadeaway. The fabric, the texture of which neurones are stimulated. Unravelling. Artistic, forever more. As long as he is in control of those ideas, as long as time doesn't pass him by sneakily, those messages will never leave him. He is the only holder of his minds key. In his sleep he unlocks a million doors but only opens 3 or 4.
And so it brings him to today. Now electrolytes and motor neurones work at a billion a second. The flow of conditional values and beliefs dominate his interior structure. Despite the recent release of hormones, he maintains that skill, that he was born with. Not all the females in the world could contaminate him. He feeds on life. So no matter what, a transcript, an evaluation, a Man-U-Script or a simple mock cannot halt his progress. He now stands up on his own two feet and leans on his opinions.
He now looks at the sky, clouds and stars. The blue ocean. The happy faces. The gullible idiots. He no longer stands in awe asking Why? He now smiles to himself and walks away bare-footed on the beach thinking; It just is.
He feeds on life.
Why thankyou.
*Twirls*
*Twirls*
Awww and you got a little mention as well.
How cute.
How cute.
Heh.
Many, many genius.
Many, many genius.
Goooooooooooooood.
Could it be? All this time, the answer we've searched for has been looking at us in the face. The answer to the puzzle. The unearthly status. Flying on his own wings. Prooving points with the brain.
An untapped source of potential. Enigmatic creativeness in abundance. He was lost all this time, in his own brain? Fully awake but, still in some protective coma? His ideas, his visions, his art . Locked away from everyone since the beginning. He has always been co-dependant on those ideas, on the flair which has gotten him notable credit.
It was locked away in the only place he knew and the only place no-one could reach. A sane man could go in and find nothing but a kaleidoscope of lost thoughts which lack any real logical connections. Until today that is. He has declared war on the world. That built-rage, no-one understanding, being alone and having superior thoughts. It's given him a creative urge. An edge, of sheer impulse. The source, the mainstream of ideas, the actual essence of creative thinking.
A thousand lifetimes in a million cultures could not have influenced anymore so. He was at one with affairs. Only the stars in the sky could dig deeper puzzles in his mind. A paradox of time and space. Aha. Paradox. Using intertextuality and icons of a forgotten era cannot be used as another means of credit. Not today.
Inter-woven ideas of his short life. He wrote and drew and spoke and of all importance he, that boy, lived . He was a Fanatic . Eternal ramblings on and on until he could be absorbed. Even if no-one read it and it still managed to reach 100. Am-poss-ee-bleh.
Indeed, people questioned that those ideas would cease. The source would over-flow or just fadeaway. The fabric, the texture of which neurones are stimulated. Unravelling. Artistic, forever more. As long as he is in control of those ideas, as long as time doesn't pass him by sneakily, those messages will never leave him. He is the only holder of his minds key. In his sleep he unlocks a million doors but only opens 3 or 4.
And so it brings him to today. Now electrolytes and motor neurones work at a billion a second. The flow of conditional values and beliefs dominate his interior structure. Despite the recent release of hormones, he maintains that skill, that he was born with. Not all the females in the world could contaminate him. He feeds on life. So no matter what, a transcript, an evaluation, a Man-U-Script or a simple mock cannot halt his progress. He now stands up on his own two feet and leans on his opinions.
He now looks at the sky, clouds and stars. The blue ocean. The happy faces. The gullible idiots. He no longer stands in awe asking Why? He now smiles to himself and walks away bare-footed on the beach thinking; It just is.
He feeds on life.
An untapped source of potential. Enigmatic creativeness in abundance. He was lost all this time, in his own brain? Fully awake but, still in some protective coma? His ideas, his visions, his art . Locked away from everyone since the beginning. He has always been co-dependant on those ideas, on the flair which has gotten him notable credit.
It was locked away in the only place he knew and the only place no-one could reach. A sane man could go in and find nothing but a kaleidoscope of lost thoughts which lack any real logical connections. Until today that is. He has declared war on the world. That built-rage, no-one understanding, being alone and having superior thoughts. It's given him a creative urge. An edge, of sheer impulse. The source, the mainstream of ideas, the actual essence of creative thinking.
A thousand lifetimes in a million cultures could not have influenced anymore so. He was at one with affairs. Only the stars in the sky could dig deeper puzzles in his mind. A paradox of time and space. Aha. Paradox. Using intertextuality and icons of a forgotten era cannot be used as another means of credit. Not today.
Inter-woven ideas of his short life. He wrote and drew and spoke and of all importance he, that boy, lived . He was a Fanatic . Eternal ramblings on and on until he could be absorbed. Even if no-one read it and it still managed to reach 100. Am-poss-ee-bleh.
Indeed, people questioned that those ideas would cease. The source would over-flow or just fadeaway. The fabric, the texture of which neurones are stimulated. Unravelling. Artistic, forever more. As long as he is in control of those ideas, as long as time doesn't pass him by sneakily, those messages will never leave him. He is the only holder of his minds key. In his sleep he unlocks a million doors but only opens 3 or 4.
And so it brings him to today. Now electrolytes and motor neurones work at a billion a second. The flow of conditional values and beliefs dominate his interior structure. Despite the recent release of hormones, he maintains that skill, that he was born with. Not all the females in the world could contaminate him. He feeds on life. So no matter what, a transcript, an evaluation, a Man-U-Script or a simple mock cannot halt his progress. He now stands up on his own two feet and leans on his opinions.
He now looks at the sky, clouds and stars. The blue ocean. The happy faces. The gullible idiots. He no longer stands in awe asking Why? He now smiles to himself and walks away bare-footed on the beach thinking; It just is.
He feeds on life.