Topdown Dialectic: False LP A LP

i'm guarding the orifices to leave them intact. it’s an attempt not to sublimate, in order to work the edges down to their fiendish implications and code the spired gongs; in which case a single word might engage the whole and send us rushing into waves of contraction. the pack itself forms a kind of ledger: biological insurants walking laps around the rectory, only partially washed up. we're waiting for the rest to arrive. till then, i'll plane the frigid marsh each night with a big machine. this mining of possible conclusions and their sputtered-out, uninterrupted enhancement gives form to the wreck of great love; the moment of its peak perceptible only upon review, the heart an ill-formed tool for that sort of work. reaching offscreen, the sky resurfaces and the room contracts, proposing a fresh consensus to each of its occupants. we wonder from afar: are we content to let them go? could we even survive ourselves?