Listening to Downtempo on a Sunday Evening

The profound feeling that everything’s wrong and nothing is wrong. That everything’s *** and everything’s so damned beautiful, at the smallest shift of a foot. And the immensity of this tickles the fingertip, a salted crumb you just gotta lick. All the more incredible- it doesn’t matter which way you read your lines. Which way do you read your lines? Who enshrined top to bottom with the bottom’s up of a whisky cup? It’s gotta come from a feeling to touch the beauty of it, communicate the grace within the whole decaying lot of it, tearing down alters to venerate what remains. How do you measure your gains as the corners of your mouth become slowly etched with the fattening burden of Serenity?