Good evening you wonderful things that give existence to thought and discussion, For your minds are my gifts to penetrate with odd writings and thoughts that you are not or you are, a greater being of life and liberty. To bask in the millions of souls that have a chance to see suck simple words I write are but a dream of mine. Letting these words and the works of visual stimulation have become a way to have ones of greater and lesser mind then myself to think. To have a tranquility of mosaic thoughts and never be part of a standard that is not of my own making. To dwell into the night and see the great bosom of nature and planetary divinity on a disc of evermore wonder. Inside a vast and truly our minds must call it endless as we cannot conserve of such a place. It is a blanket of comfort we are hear in a steady rotations of a stable luminary. We are to be the ones who see this and become invalid or become a boundless one, to become the ones who not see the hopelessness of structural incompetence to its vastness.

A beauty of death and life, a unconscious clock, a forgotten and forgiven twilight blanket. If we are to be casual and not to be the things we call sick and disastrous, then we are the devout to the ones who came before us. Not in worship of godliness, not to bound the dead in a memoriam of sin or gracious means. All these things we give such a grandeur meaning and never the truth and suffer the incipience of past and future. That we are all born scared and alone, the warmth of the fluid and body of your mother torn from you and cold world of unknown intrusions of body and soul. A slap to the behind and then laying on a familiar and yet foreign sensations. Torn from our world of development and security, to the world cold and alone. Alone in thought, speech, emotions and sight. Understood by none, fear in these things that manipulate and twist your body into a course and cold wrap. Then sounds that are common to the monsters of indiscretion and mutilations, body parts cut from me and what look like the veins of life are every where, powering things unknown to the child and the innocence. Yet we are raised to be more, thought and minds are to be of the common and never to the beautiful. A world where beauty is not but the past inked onto parchment, the art of a man or woman divine not in matter, but memory. Truly we are a creations of means and not of thou in mindset to become more.

Even in the most wonderous minds we are still bound to the real, how this is tormented by the soul all so creative, by the mind that still grasps the invaluable thoughts of one and uncorrupted by the means of ridicule. Feats of greatness are bound in the minds who state that generality and modernity is a state we created and for its creation we pay in all our ability to created and imagine. The modern world is not of passion and desire, but fractals of families that now hold hate over bounded blood, who hold the divine in the internet as a greater being then all who become our caskets carriers, we devout to hostilities and yet expect the ones we curse with immorality to be the morel ones to carry us to our final resting place. Soon enough, those who bask in modernity become the ones who become ash as not one is bound to the love that would once carry you to your grave. Yet now we rather the cold touch of a incinerator then the final looks of love and hope you found peace in death. With all the bounded to technology, we are all bound to a loveless death.

All this I chose not to be, I chose are not to be my beings means, they are means of the many, I rather suffer the few.

Let this be a means to communicate love and devotion to the flesh and not the material. Bound in hearts of the few is more important then remembered by the many as a creator of lifelessness in steel.

Until later these thoughts are boundless and yet have become to be know only to me in this form of flesh.

Much love, You wonderful creations of life.

Your Friendly Ginger From The Woods.