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  • Writer's picturerobertsavela

In search of the orb with Sleep's Holy Mountain

Recognize the new red sun winding roads and skies every which spectral-gaze way. Take them positively its more of a streetwise experience than making a thorazine-shuffle picture of the road, sail, fly, ride alone, sail rocked like a stone cloud. Go far, go deep, further than the first reptile master. You might come up with some weepy-eyed lamentations and illogical judgements ponder those spacepods because they lead to new fizzed-out memories and silence and holy on the mountain and a drunken search for the mad sonic titan image.

Acid words born anew as each doobie-ambience moment provides droop sloop John B Cale drone tone. Starting from zero every time getting some kicks with the Buddhist searcher through cities and water and sky. Forget your sense of purpose, smoke some vodka and all goals go to the side like some riff druid loops just walk on I wanna walk on not trying to be anything one is not. Death begins the process of growth. Be yourself stoned like a glacier intuitively the old die young follow the fuzz texture gut organically from beyond. The surrendering to chance encounters hesher motorin’ dissolve the ten-ton pressure heavy self ‘cause it don’t exist like wicker-made gates of hell.

What happens TO us is what we are made of with random acts of wanderlust and surreal romance never ending series of desperado situations pedal to the metal don’t hesitate. Chance involves the escaping of ego, habit, and power – no direction home hobo homeward bound presence or absence let’s leave this strung-out mess.

The beginning of the search with keys of looseness may be chaotic highs or a place to hide. Those occur before order and Apollonian sacred geometry, not the details but the whole gestalt secrets of the exiled. Don’t worry, the drifter mood doesn’t like to focus, so be open to the new and accept what melody surfaces. The end-of-the-world spirit will not dwell in one place, do not fill in the patterned imagery. Go, go, go by your wandering impulses. A theme of artsy mini-processes unobserved and not deliberate.

To seek the epiphany is to lose it. My highway…



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