sensate misstree it all matters, every drop in the cup, bitter or sweet, every step, feet speaking speaking speaking speaking and what the words mean isn't as important as the speaking, isn't as important as knowing that there is still communication between flesh and soul, that mind still sparks and grasps and finds that there is Something past this vehicle, that it can reach out and grip something Outside. the words don't matter, the worlds don't matter, they are there, they are what i rub up against to find my outline, they are what i pound my fist against to release, they are what define me as Alive, no matter the words, no matter the sensation, the input, the babble, as long as soundtrack runs, my movie is playing. 031226 ... . . 041026 ... (z) the world consists swarming me it grows verging and disappears as it recedes vanishing winged things sail over in parabolic nearness the ground presses at feet humped under curve gliding to nothing beyond and i feel air pressed on me movements beyond felt dimly flapping things in distance untouched cotton fiber surround murmured ambient universe i am alive (from: sensorium) 041027 ... misstree "tain't no sin to take off your skin and dance around in your bones..." i am fascinated by meat. it is somewhere between the me and the notme, an interface point i can't (yet) exit from. it's the yet, i think, that draws me. iut's a rabbit-hole i'm digging deeper into, maddened by the scent. i've been knocked out of my skin, on rare and intense occasions. so i know it's possible. and each time, i would try to stave off the panicked return, the scrabbling that didn't always catch right away. but, while i had access to such state, i was getting better... but that's just one aspect of it. my meat and i are wary neighbors, sometimes. that's the root of why i crave sensation; because it makes meat talk and brain shudder. i am not apart from my meat, i am also my meat, but too too often, it is quiet and unnoticed. i want it to roar. 060526 ... misstree need itches under my skin 060526 what's it to you? who go blather from