me do not walk. I do not want to walk. I do not like standing. I prefer to swim away from my feet beyond the edges allowed. where banks are screaming children whose mothers have foot and mouth also make foot and biting neighbors eat under a military umbrella that shades, bites. no, I do not want to walk. I never wanted to walk. foot is to go and get it stopped. stop at the shore and dive between the pages of a newspaper salmon, not a river. foot is to cook it, is stopping at the edge of the shouting and foul-mouthed children and mothers. I do not want to walk because I want to dive again until those banks that are so deep are prohibited, and where there throats throats but no screaming children, or boomerangs that will rotate the body, or grains of sand that the wind has pushed your eyes and fill their mouths as if they were locusts, cicadas were those mothers who ate dead flesh of human misery. no, I want those more secluded shores where simply not there or is it but water. keep swimming to keep my brain dry. downwind swim or not. water my brain through the night and settled docking and subsequent days in that solitary shore and wet. 
now, in this inner city, watering with rainwater my brain for not beating oblivion, they say that at this point than life science. water. I water my visceral brain fluid is in the memory of a watermelon open wide ... more water in this pool of live salmon. Meanwhile, the spinning world seems secondary. I lose my head with memories of water. I rid the stomach and regurgitation to continue latida-that watermelon stuck to the walls. memories of red water in their branches, ancient food from my mouth which turned my mob and survives to water and more daily bread. I come from the sea is nutrient. portion of food to survive in this desert city is my throat. an entire urban discourse to kill that dry cicada brood in this dune is not sterile more than that I alone on that side of screaming children and mothers eating neighborhoods. urban water my brain to the sex of a sea lion, flying fish and mine is glowing crimson tiger wolf hunger of my mouth. Today the rain has wet my tiles and my brain has spread. today it rains in madrid and this brings me my sensory side. I need to see the sea. drink up the sea the tender room, Pipilotti RITS
* rains. the sound of water and Pipilotti, what things make me write ....
