When it’s a struggle thinking of a pussycat whose claws are so cleverly sharp that the Skylark doesn’t stand a chance. Whose immediacy is so immediate and bursting with fervour the mind contracts into a black hole. You die here. In silent passion. Dead.

What can an image convey, can it convey anything to the blank mind. That mind that always looks for reasons, and why, and can you change, and how, and what does that mean, mean, mean, meaning. That always need the succour. Decant their minds of effluent and trash tv and influencers and yellow journalism and mighty marketears whose soul purpose is entropy of the spirit.

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