Placeholder: [collage art by William Burroughs] So I think about vineyards. Lusher! Wilder! Whoa! Not that vibrant. set in a vineyard, the electronic hum of the night intermingles with the rustling of the vines. Collage of voices and images swirl in the minds of the poets as they gather under the neon glow of the moon. Words fragmented and rearranged like a Beatnik symphony, creating a cacophony of meaning and madness. A figure emerges, glitched and distorted, moving through the digital vines, a glitch in t [collage art by William Burroughs] So I think about vineyards. Lusher! Wilder! Whoa! Not that vibrant. set in a vineyard, the electronic hum of the night intermingles with the rustling of the vines. Collage of voices and images swirl in the minds of the poets as they gather under the neon glow of the moon. Words fragmented and rearranged like a Beatnik symphony, creating a cacophony of meaning and madness. A figure emerges, glitched and distorted, moving through the digital vines, a glitch in t

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[collage art by William Burroughs] So I think about vineyards. Lusher! Wilder! Whoa! Not that vibrant. set in a vineyard, the electronic hum of the night intermingles with the rustling of the vines. Collage of voices and images swirl in the minds of the poets as they gather under the neon glow of the moon. Words fragmented and rearranged like a Beatnik symphony, creating a cacophony of meaning and madness. A figure emerges, glitched and distorted, moving through the digital vines, a glitch in t

distorted image, malformed body

3 days ago

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SSD-1B

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[collage art by William Burroughs] In this vineyard of cacophony, the symphony of chaos plays out among the twisted vines. The clinking of glasses mingles with the discordant poetry recited by the beat poets, their voices weaving in and out of each other like a tangled vineyard maze. The electronic hum of the night is punctuated by bursts of glitched music, creating a dissonant backdrop to the fragmented conversations.
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[collage art by William Burroughs] set in a vineyard, a group of bohemian poets gather under the moonlit vines, their words flowing like the wine in their glasses. Love blooms like grapes on the vines, tangled and intoxicating. Secrets whispered among the twisted rows, echoing the hidden desires of the night. A mysterious figure emerges from the shadows, a poet with a past as dark as the soil beneath the vines. Betrayal, passion, and redemption intertwine in this vineyard tale, where the grapes
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The deadline looms as the unearthly music swells around me. Another mysterious tale takes shape amid the flickering lights and scrapes of stone on stone. What monsters will crawl from the recesses of my mind this time? Mama Yaga's watching, as always, from her crooked hut in the grim forest. I can feel her beady eyes peering through the gloom, waiting to see what images I will weave with pen and ink. The pressure builds, a familiar intruder, but inspiration remains elusive. The radio spirits off
Their dreams are our nightmares
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