Byline: Early Eighties R&B Romance

Buford Youthward

November nights allow us to notice the power of life and the shadow of death.

Taking notice and taking action create different forms of love. But thoughts are best expressed through motion. All stabs are violent — there's nothing static at all.

Constructs of truth pit subjective experience against objective achievement. Devising and demonstrating an outward demonism and inward innocence certifies some and signifies others.

Watching lives turn into mad rhythm and common folks chase rich folks freedom is fodder for fairytales. We should be measured by our transitions not our objectives.

There's no use in trying to hide inside information when masses mingle, moping about with continual mystification and fascination for falsification.

Toiling as a hipster in werewolf's clothing I watch people alone but not necessarily lonely, servicing an alienation longing for comprehension. Sometimes the loneliest place in the world is in the audience at a rock show.

We wish to consume with Apollonian reflection great Dionysian gestures, finding payoffs in song and sobriety balanced with wine, women and weed.

A noble piece of music, like a majestic graphic, is greater than any of its performances or representations when meaningful contextual possibilities are inexhaustible.

Language is the currency of the mind. Unique techniques are the resource of virtuosos with an aim toward truth recognizing that heroes aren't born, they're cornered.

Falling for the facade is what we are forced to do. We dream and pretend about virtues imposed on us and imposing and projecting on society.

Like my man Al Jarreau sang, we're in this love together.

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