Chemical love surfaces point to everyone, everything, and all insane people. Not the library with its barren illusory Surfaces, infinite in sacrifice; no, heartbreakingly we dream, we accelerate the heroism. Sure of song and faint of science, we are met only by the Sun, the sensation, the universe. We experience spoonfuls of cut zoo-like liquid hefted to drugstore bits and pieces and foamy Mona Lisas. Reaching, untested fluoride oozes towards tons of births and bloody mirrors laughing to knives in faces and rescued addicts looking for all that point of view. Snap down and polish the hypothesis. Sensational brains! We prefer those surfaces able to sing. Had we lifted the duplicator of people like an infinite view of infinity accelerating infinitely, our universal heart illusions would've met love in that crowded room beyond the birth room of big bangs.
This has been a Dream of Music: (artist) The Flaming Lips / (record) The Soft Bulletin / (label) Warner
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