david lynch Again, but before the first one

All of our life is an homage, to what we see of ourselves, what we make of ourselves, projecting an image of ourselves, from life, onto the face of death. "Who would have known?" Not the silence, not the spirit, nor the dream. In everywhere, does an orange purse echo. Take the watch, the lipstick, the orgasm, forget this silly past and become composed: of the clouds that hang and linger among the seaweed, the tongues of red monsters in pickled, decaying flesh, Press the raised flesh, surround it in the sensation of stroking fingers, Feel the cells respond, rise up to meet your cells, Align two planes in waves of feeling that condense into a single stroking line, which curves inward, devours itself like a snake into a connected ring.