Van Gogh shot himself in the chest.
Sometimes it is true that you do not feel. You process information. Only four channels are reasonably available to you. The key is reason – it isn’t anything else, breathless. Sojourn.
I can patiently explain. Go through the motions on a track. If you were to take a walk right now, would you feel bored? What would come to you, of you, do you need anything.
I was watching Bannon explain his ‘Economic Nationalism’.
I was plodding along, on a guitar, terribly. Then at a point, as you think of the music, the notes seem to open up -- like a tab of acid behind a wall. It's like when you read the letter you wrote a decade ago.
Poetry is a climbing wall. The moment when you open the door. The quality of light in the split second
before dying down.
It was the first time you were outside that day, after that long, long day, in this long, long life. The last Van Gogh before Google’s suicide.
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My book, Mechanics of Reincarnation, available now. Film version coming soon to BitChute, in full.
Blogs:
Second Week: An Ex-Google User Report
First Week: An Ex-Google User Report
THE EIGHTEEN HUNDREDTH JOB
The Great Closed Mind Crisis
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