Eurozone class struggle is more and more slippery. Or peach-dreamy. I’m not sure discourse product pertains. A shrine of axioms certifies wealth and income distribution, honing you / one into two dimensions on the surface.
I’m socialist by nature, maintaining perspective (the tatemae policy), I’m spooked
while cashing in analytics
(lifting data off) to mine parallelisms (partisan gold).
Atheism is otherwise the main event at the Hague. Secrets of satire want to float free to find an informatics of doors opening (bassoon music) and structured multiplicities (an ear for sex).
A bright spot on the game horizon, we’re beginning to see a need for a blanket authority or foundation to issue antinomian licenses. A nondemocratic institution that constitutes only one of a set to which no democratic or parliamentarian voice matters, no second thoughts, no heuristics, and in which nothing un-elfin or hurtful belongs or stays put, holding itself to the test doctrine of multiple shots at Todd’s Miniature Golf.
An idea dawns as I back ‘into’ the salon. It’s a salon poem! exquisite, uninviting, keeps its distance, so what?
A tai chi student crosses Walnut. Compare Dana’s silhouette to one of anyone who won’t study. The arts administrator, director, a politician acquires a verbal correspondence to her, an equivalence inside a process repertoire.
Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one more subjective state, a quality of the frieze, not an elevation or height.
This is a dance question. Fibber Perseus v radiation (Dana, his mom). Which are ya?
In one sketch you can see big futures ahead, mouthpieces to the salon [O flat major] rolled ‘into’ burbles, ‘into’ spools of Walnut pedestrians sweating lead colors.