After button is pushed a model young theorist says hello, how are you, then reverses course. She heads upstairs to an installation in perfect solitude.
I’ve heard that scream didn’t help but it did.
The spell for lunch today: slender objective on a square obstacle. Then follow instructions, slippers are warmed. Work is down in the sub-chambers, aimlessly glistening, before reaching glacier-elbow high water, everything in hierarchical Finland, which always works, works everywhere.
A kimono has been entered, explaining sex without thinking, and with.
A fragrance is found shaking our heads, wiping our brows.
The same stairs float, for good, if they could.
Like all of the above and people going in and out of buildings, climbing steps, you’re one hundred percent normal to run up debt, heartbroken, also to downplay scene after scene, only springing or twisting into new life and with..
On second thought, the herd rushed to the rescue (there’s a deadline), a tumble of inventions, an ambush, a weakening of night to day — body in the hole — one enzyme waking up isolated, seeming Stinky. I touched it and it sprayed me.
Watch the student’s eyes and say the manager is out.
The tank smoke is elevated. (Parens are back.)
One’s position is to find breathing room, so much so we can start over. Whom will you discover?
On the third post you really had us and were all over us. You didn’t have to what the hell? We told you we agreed a little but not a lot. (I forget now what you sound like.) Choked up by the blots running out, suspended. It’s unlikely there’s more about that future and of course less. And some things you need no repeat.
This was at the start. I know that. Taking chances put us in a lissome interpretive state (lissome like rebirth). Function varies widely. Lilac is so devoted a zest. Then it plummets into difficulty. Here we are, talking about it.
I feel it’s necessary to ache in blather, calmly, accruing intimacy. Hey I’m really as sorry
as a Kotzwinkle alloy.
Incision continues in this vein... Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis).
Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).
Here is the place you and I may detect the language driver, untidy and young, loath
despite the foundational rule of no rule speaking up without permission.
You get somewhere then stop.
They grow inner living language in dim light over —
misdoers with a kill-agenda are tickled into corruption
since the nervous system distorts radially. Tarantulas of steel squeeze under the door, isolated by an obsession with coming right in. If I have to I’ll be dressing down to my Tesla character, elbows up, free, easy. There I go, holist.
We like newness in a way when both leave things. Like
how I graduated from this shame of ours, this pride
in the battle between the sexes? The rich won.
Can you place our names? I have a full canoe of alter-ego, asides and decorative indeterminacy. With hat, I got to anticipating mind control as disingenuous.
Unlike the head in one head, third-place supreme courts are traded from the top; time to find fortune underground, in roundish coiffures from out of town. De-rattled by Vogue and noted last century, there’s the rustic perp for a painter style and muddled cool. We come from someone, slowly calmed by that fear we were of a kind he was to others, but I lack redoubled patrimony and sounding-it-out tools.
Did you check the oil?
Very good. Very goo
off, throwing knives, wrecking them
from the inside, slicing up!
It gave me hiccups when senses re-cooled, the unoccupied mind long overdue. The you
I reference is in primary season.
And I’m back reading and lifting plates, you in the foreground with pleasant memories. (The conductor knows everything.)
Geben Sie ihm helfen, bitte..
We grabbed the narrator (we couldn’t rule him out), staying blithe from the twin column in potatoland dirt colors, a flurry of identity fantasy, perhaps, yet eco-conscious and nightlife to frantic calls.
The fop is a French invention, an essentialist’s incarnation. It’s now an English tramp thing, Le Smoking for surf, dressed, eft.
Beach safety — wow, everything has that just-did-it-for-creation smell. The Buddha Machine on Low, marking Tramp Lapping My Skull. Pointless stupid madness. (Yours.) The double v above his eyes means very-very. (I’m not.)
I know this sounds lame — you and I annulled our thingness with a few hand-waves and felt rapt, the way we inspire open, emotional austerity,
To commune sounds handsome, also calm, also bendy. In the same call he reverses prerogatives, that is, the voice does. (I’ll table the difference. Each.)
“Cloven, we are incorporate...”
His message is mixed but never better aligned. Together, and across, the call center serves as hideout, learning the ropes, perusing scraps and parts of hope.
No fins of infinity. Nope.
Pigeons pattern the exponents where detachment is trimmed.
We have no major issues.
Shady aftermath inter-scope.
And to think a way out, we can blur the ground and yield authority to a bowl that’s really a vase, sit and watch dogs turn smoky brown tracking vans in drizzle, tarnished from sight, playing against a stack of storm windows, within a composure for light a translator can’t reach.
23 hours ago the idea of writing took a while. Times. A mindset occupied, just so jokes turn into dreams. It’s dreams that forgive us for everything (or almost everything except redemption). That’s because ideas, when they’re ‘awake,’ get downgraded to icy paranoia, trapping you and me inside a force field owing to our expertise.