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I Am Santo

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These plates in the cabinets or the special trinkets from a life of bustle within the margins, they’re too safe behind the glass. From the discarded cells of ten thousand days, or the heavy footfalls of a disappointed heart, they sit protected and untouched, periphery dressings in a world domesticated by routine and propriety.

Smash them, not out of anger, but because there should never be something labeled so fragile as to not know air or sun or terror or that continuous joy felt at the end of a drawn breath before release, trembling and tense. It’s a purposeless endeavor to keep it all pristine and in order, for no stream follows a clean line back to the sea, and no thing, alive or still, should lie forgotten, only remembered at special moments deemed correct.

Fuck what’s right! Pull the cabinets open with too much force and listen to the glass crack and shatter to freedom from this plain order. It’s unacceptable to shake the shelves simply to see china roll, and drum a beat until vibration marries gravity and the shards of decency skitter across the hardwood like new universes exploding into the black, spraying chaos in every direction and teasing the rules to a challenge: be noble all you want and be right, but this will prevail for it is the mess of life and discord is the heartbeat of all things.

A rhythm is routine and symmetry is for the automatic, never for lovers who clutch at each other with unreasonable hunger, hearts throbbing and sex hot with need. Discovery cannot happen in a vacuum, the atmosphere sustains the dizzying flourish of life and eyes and minds scour every corner for new splinters of simple truth, puzzle pieces to a collected whole in the mundane, a hole in the chaos.

It’s no special certainty to hang on to, the fearless collection of supposed veracity with respect to heritage and order, protection and kin. Be sour with passion and sharp with danger! Don’t hold breath, expel it as the expectation expires, birthing experience. Maintain nothing! Tip the entire case forward sending all of the supposed precious into noisy transformation.

In silence progress limps with gallant precision, an assertive, near arrogance of will keeping the stars moving exactly as expected. Set them free! In din, progress conquers as a virulent bliss, absorbing every reaction, protecting nothing, fighting, hurting, sighing, exasperated as each change threatens to slice deep into the fabric of order, a shard free to travel, love and learn.

To see what's what in the world of Santo

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