Spinning S-rams riding black asphalt- plane (SWC)

A messenger has let doubt escape the boundaries of his souls, now flowing to the beat of a lesser body. He finds himself fragmented through illusions of everyday society and at the same time in somewhat of a harmony gloriously rejected by the higher self in such warmth. Everyday is full with whatever seemingly endless amounts of energy that is summoned by the SOL itself drying out the last piles of salt devoured snow- piles on 2nd avenue. Holding its self up on sovereignty not known by man but athlete, a flexible body reflecting the waters ahead like a mirror in the illusion we call a dream. Im talking tight turns and unexpected interventions between players and sprinters in the street speeding together like birds of feather or herds of a leather born before, but now mocked by the production process itself. The constant fight resembling the ever so existent karmic duality found not in the areas of grey but spaces in wind spreading itself across my face because beauty knows not the limits of the collectives rather the potential in the Human effort; in the mounted conversion of thought and transcendence through realms the eyes are unaware of. If the machine itself being powered endures seemingly every curve or groove of the path of the one experiencing, does it hold spirit? Does it not hold characteristics ironically portrayed on frozen adhesive melded by the infinite cycle of the sun, spirit, sram.

@Jasiriman -Lark