Not untill they sin Schiller is king

thebookmann expresses his gratitude to readers over the recently completed work, known as Feinin, May 31th to October 10th, 2009.

The collection has been removed in the interest of compiling a book. Any interest in acquiring images from this series can be requested through this website. All Rights Reserved

By the time the dust had settled, God was bruised, she was cold, bleeding from her head. They rallied, they cheered. His intestine removed and devoured by serpents .

At the time, the pharaoh spoke in a language not known by those who vowed never to spit, Feinin fell flat unable to move. His body resembled a tomb. he latched to breath in the pharaoh footsteps. Aging, larking the will be boost. The Pharaoh realized his method made Feinin defied the living, in a world far too liberated. His was composed of law, rules to be obeyed, yet capturing him to glimpse a place lampooned. In centuries to come, Feinin's will could reach his land.

Stop remain were you are Feinin, I too see you. My soul must obey, kneel. Obey, Schiller torments them. His is too forgetful in the minds of Jews.

God was indeed him, tormented over by rules, discussions too soon to make. So be it, let them worry, call off the discussions....Enjoy God's power to bring money. It looked fine brother, get away, the Mammoth of Time drinks from the same pool, lapping the seed so rich to nourish the limbs. kicking, playing dead to catch you, Friedrich Schiller began to wonder, who could he be in truth he had never forgotten his love. They sang in the meadows, forgetting all who cherished him, the writer in universe fulled with hope.

My Lord, I say on to you, Feinin is real, my Lord I say on to thee Feinin is asleep. Go to him, wake him gently, whisper to him, "I know where you gowith, bring genius. Centuries to come I will live among you. Awoken, the King did not dream, the night was of worry, praying to us, if only he knew, all was not as it appeared to them, a cheater, a cold miserable feign. During the night, he suffered, what to do? where to dream?

Thy knoweth him, thy knoweth me fortune drifts in sight, obey, return to me, Lord I am humblest, Lord I am free.

They had sex, they fucked so sweet the God maned him...The bodies where of strength, his mounted, attacking with his tongue, unclear that in God's nature, the power to fuck was his calling....Horseplay..his so lovely, well, forget it, it was true, the dream Feinin had approached spun across the horizon, I know, its ridiculous.

They could not stand it, the message so simple, yet there was confusion...Feinin had ended his love, so deep, so piercing, so forgotten, by rips, lies and deceit. The days were draped over with more lies, a tiring that left him thinking. It captured it so clear, the falcon, it touched them, so insightful to measure, to witness beauty in a place unknown, so tiny, a dot in the seas. Measured by a knowing if only it made sense..the power of image, the writer was right, now it was too late, a future filled with resentment, laughing, kissing the ass that feeds its troubles.

God was asleep, she was free, in the heart, the muscle, the blood so thin that it left no mark. I am going to discover what really makes you Great. In all the world, it was true, they were to be together till god spoke her name. In the record books who knew, that all the peoples of the world, the chosen few, it was her to rule.

Listen close to your heart, it brings me comfort, moreover it says it all, arrivederci

I often think that we are together in a place so peaceful that I want to share the moments. In time, he whispers, today is not forever, spent your destiny in work. Laugh in my presence as a reminder of privilege, greed and expectations. All things too rancid, troubled by global menace. You took it for a reason, it taught me never to take others, to steal simple ideas...to use at most. He's jealous, the picture of the boy looked like her, immediately. It was true, the minds were bonded, the journey called for patients, Feinin could amass Worlds, eclipsing the language. In his memory the calling echoed, misery forgoth you, change, talk no more...

So sorry, I got to leave, I'm growing sick you see, the lies, repeated. Let them decide what best for themselves, let his heart burst into tears, as he sees me looking, pointing at the sky. There he is, oh look there, wow, amazing , German breed, speaks French, Italian, Spanish. Lord, I have been told that Feinin is MATTER, it was over, most materials are just that, MATTER, so God wrote to the Mighty Force, that in the days ahead, NO ONE SHALL HURT HIM, FOR HE IS ENCOMPASSING


I knowith to be true of thee, my Pharaoh, since the days of Sheba

So it was true, the man loved what I knew, his was better with the world so jealous by writers in the time of Schiller, a loner, a fool too sick to spell Amen that he jumped at every opportunity. I love him, I don't care what it says, alone is not to be, he is dangerous weak, feathering a tune. the Pharaoh sang aloud, flowers, the seed of man ingested with milk. So where, for I grieved over my siblings. forget, ingest more, tubes of blood, caked, stammering, brazing the limb, strong. powerful, ingest quickly before time resits your mind. Call, awake, synergy is waiting, spinning around, like a dance, a flower, the seed to be caught. I am dying, I close my heart, I see no evil among my mind..

They shot a film, she loved her memory. A man talked, his was in a tone so sweet...Here, we regret to say this, but I lost my power. God woke, he looked around and he saw things which called his name...

>BRING THEM TO WEEP<>TEACH THEM NOTHING >< >REMEMBER THIS< Oh boy, he is wicked, but not wrong, pray........


Feinin: An postmodern art term which implies the remapping of existing iconography to inject a sensory faculty of a present history overlapped over annals of history.(Feininology) is a homogenization of the self and it attempts to breathe life into the epochs of time where meaning is questioned by the manifestation of its infinitive placing. (Feininoptic) The term is devised to describe the self portraits in a prophetical context. Richard Bolai © MMIX