The Dark Angels are a come and go crew. They create then disappear like street art. Their works exist in fragments, particles that float, dust motes that spin before the wind that blows them to faraway places. They are individuals that work as one. Deep as oceans, as impenetrable as the night. Art urchins and poets, they dissolve before they form. They are the Dark Angels, they are discharge. They are a bloody mouthful.
4 comments:
I just managed to perfect some small triumph after all the others. So, the sun shines and I want more. The house in great, by the way, with its minor, shuddering blasts running through me. I could offer a more simple response, but you know me. Maybe I believe feelings generate the man.
Imaculately disturbing.
tHE REtUrN Of THE mAStER aRTmAN
yeah!!!
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