𝒯𝒽𝑒 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝒟𝒶𝓃𝒸𝑒 𝓂𝒶𝒸𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝒾𝓃 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝒸𝑜𝓇𝓃𝑒𝓇 𝑜𝒻 𝒞𝓎𝒷𝑒𝓇𝒾𝒶 𝓈𝑒𝑒𝓂𝑒𝒹 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓋𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝓅𝑜𝓈𝓈𝑒𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹…

To honest ears, mimicry has lost her sense of generation and boundary. She walls in, escaping less and less, making and entering via the cicadas become circuitry. Tuning to ethereal there is future here, in freed neural pathways, glitch replicants of the passage possessed in tides. I believe in the dreamed connection of the breakbeat. At the height of grass we reform cross-pollinated with underground tunnels of city, content in imperfect containers traveling quickly and glittering. I have sent glyphs individually over the years, and here I find them collecting to become their destined transmission of love.

𝒜𝓁𝓂𝑜𝓈𝓉 𝓁𝒾𝓀𝑒 𝒶 𝒹𝓊𝓋𝑒𝓉 𝒸𝑜𝓋𝑒𝓇 𝓈𝓊𝒸𝓀𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒷𝒾𝑔 𝒮𝑒𝒾𝓀𝑜 𝓌𝒶𝓁𝓁 𝒸𝓁𝑜𝒸𝓀 𝒾𝓃 𝒢𝒾𝓃𝓏𝒶, 𝒷𝑒𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓅𝒶𝓈𝓈𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝓇𝑜𝓊𝑔𝒽 𝑔𝑒𝒶𝓇𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓅𝒾𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓃𝓈 𝓊𝓃𝓉𝒾𝓁 𝒾𝓉’𝓈 𝒸𝑜𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓇𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜 𝒶 𝒻𝓇𝑒𝑒-𝓂𝑜𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝒶𝓈𝓈 𝑜𝒻 𝒸𝑜𝓉𝓉𝑜𝓃 𝒸𝒶𝓃𝒹𝓎 - 𝓈𝓌𝑒𝑒𝓉 𝒶𝒾𝓇….𝐼𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓂𝑒 𝓉𝓎𝓅𝑒 𝑜𝒻 𝓅𝒶𝓇𝒶𝓃𝑜𝒾𝒶 𝓌𝑒 𝑒𝓍𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒾𝑒𝓃𝒸𝑒𝒹 𝒷𝒶𝒸𝓀 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓃? 𝐸𝒾𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒶𝓎 - 𝓉𝒽𝑒 𝓂𝑒𝒹𝒾𝒸𝒾𝓃𝑒 𝓈𝓂𝑒𝓁𝓁𝓈, 𝓉𝒶𝓈𝓉𝑒𝓈 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝑜𝓀𝓈 𝒹𝒾𝒻𝒻𝑒𝓇𝑒𝓃𝓉.