[D-G] Full SONG !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

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 "The Enveloppe" is the nightingale sub-song and the poet's bomb which
 we throw one onto another as we talk to each other, it's like the
 "concepts", I always lingered the infinite resonnance these words can
 be vibrating with, like a sickness in me, envelopping they envelop me,
 like a magic lamp or a partner's tender enveloppe as it embraces me
 (and where it unfolds more in the woman than in the man the enveloppe
 sends me a sign each time I need to decide so that I  know where is
 Ariadne actually in the Labyrynth of my Animus), the different
 thicknesses of enveloppes they would look more handy also for those who
 use concepts for working within a plane of Immanence: for practicing
 with concepts the philosopher needs characters expressing the movement
 by which one leaves territory of concept and creates (a determination)
 an Idea.  A concept is a territory (ch4 geo-phylosophy). The enveloppe
 that our brain you say, can touch, as it lingers as it leaves the
 territory and goes to the outside places elswhere in the steppe of the
 Natal, like Giant Shrimps escaping from Jacques Cousteau's attention
 and his vain markers from which he hoped to co-ordinate theoritcally
 his audiences, following in that the movements of the New Jerusalem G-D
 the Atheist Substance told him to who knows? connections and
 disconnections set in-between enveloppes leaves or folds the space in
 harmony or in dis-sonance, asking us to invent with relentless
 constraints to avoid fashism of enveloppes, our thoughts escorting us
 in the Sky, going there and according to whatever Muses say, if for
 example they prefer the earthyan ground, Musesthat fashion our taste or
 our the melodies in our mind and their rate of birth, out of
 determinated  preferrences, collectively dismantling sometimes the
 notion aquired by previous enveloppes that a taste for the "wrong", the
 "fuzzy" signifyes something a-significant ultime of the "intellectual
 spacium" building itself anywhere like a voyage on an Empire, the
 Empire of our minds, so that it e-modulates like a musical intrument
 destructive passions of collective chimeras, crustaceans extracting
 their Shrimps Markers from the variation of the distances which sever
 them from the Natal, severing one Shrimp from the Neighbour, one from
 the other in existence dissonating as Shouting Shrimps, a strange music
 called by  the angelic harp of common sense an "anti-fashism" whose
 only score is as timeless as an illustration which was starting for us
 a fantastical deluvium of fantasmatical feelings promissed in Eretz
 Israel and pouring as the Cosmos itself in our haerts ideas disappeared
 then reappeared as we became anti-semitic when the collective was
 fractalised, and left us puzzling as concepts of itself in all it's
 distantifiated envelopped settings seemingly ordered random
 commandments which were about to close the melodious landscape on an
 adequate rythm, a slow, that gave us back the senso, the gustus
 sapienza, the panels of the people had been forwarded here a-rythmical
 enough so as the music can still be processed in feedbacks of old words
 to please the "vulgum pecus" of the stachoistical bites that the
 audience thought was a falling sense, characters set towards the
 exploration of a deleuzian continuum evaporating out of a dream factory
 that dumpled somwhere down from our artisanal proto bomb and went
 everywhere, as the Thousand Plateaus. (the famous full song was then
 replayed in the Rain Forest and anti-fashist lyrics imitated discretely
 by sub-songs, all cars and human industrial compounds in the matter of
 the computer age itself, were suddenly heard for the first time in the
 Ancient Jerusalem, it was the new sub-song of syd littlefield, the
 first baby nightingale among us who was checking his throat and gave
 the to the drift-line in 2005 his first full-song to the anti-fashist
 Virtual Universe of to Glenn the blue tit and his scenopoetic cousin
 Mark Bell. And they sang in Unity even if they never met before. It was
 a first.

And that is what they saw as they read neone lit their brains

Si Mamman Si
Si Mamaman
Si
Si Maman tu voyais ma vie...

But it was in vain, their mother had built a nest for a parasitic ugly
specie which was already philosophying when they thought singing was
new.

-- 
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