Absence of song rules for a higher authority. The boards are filled out to their edges with intricacy (crosshatches over pastel word clumps), busy but cool, almost ambient absence of thought. The soft vellum pellets change the impression a bit. A busy, cool songlessness that’s slimed, maybe.
It’s a fact eye contact is defensive but our strategies are the contents. Uncreatured narcosis aggregates, drifting toward humane senses. (And all we did was tie up our shirts.) This is how contingency shows up in texts, making sense to and from alterations that seem situational within a figure/chicken-ground/egg round robin.
Anyway, I retract my falsehoods. At the same time I condemn and mourn meritocracy. For all men are servants (JC et al.) that nonetheless practice geometry to respect the brain. (I don’t think it’s called Trampoland for nothing.)
The Darwinian environment is a robust lifestyle exposing the hashish of space to gain a hilltop on seamless mannerism, or maybe it’s more like mannerism modifying one’s memories in an oblique self-interrogation where you can share your conventions and broker a plan!
The dharma of the windmill is monotonous.
If I were mannerist, I would describe our ‘age’ (for quality assurance and training purposes) as the one just before the death of death. We are approaching New Venice. So far, the ‘reports’ reserve commentary, remembering your breasts. Lovely but. The cross-hatching which allowed our ancestors to exchange certain genetic traits for others...has just about run out of steam, and has left us wondering, once more, what there is about this plush solitude that makes us think we will ever get out, or even want to. It’s nice finally to be able to put a face to the humiliating nickname.
True or of course? A degree from Capella U. sounds attractive.
After the masters spoke we ate a snack and read country sheet music..
can we cut to the scary part?
In no time we went for a treat and put six heads under water. Next, did my homework which was to study for a spelling bee. Then we ate cupcakes. Mrs. Brown taught us about binary numbers and the mind. I love math wiping our flesh and solving problems.
Later we’re taught the integral self can level with all the others, and sadness is a public health problem. So protesters are hired to hunt down any incriminating thoughts and raise contentment rates.
“Let me tell you why you’re here, to disseminate our values.
“We haven’t changed the infrastructure. A bad earache reduces shaking hands, I mean, sluggish jellyfish with blond hair.”
Looking back on that time — my early twenties I mean — I realize how awful and obviously coming from a family of sardines I was. Despite the violent and seemingly unprovoked attacks, I’m now smoothly sailing into my 80s. (GM)
Relax and beware, the law of cause and effect can be obscured as traffic aims straight at us. We wake up, cartoon-lean, and we sleep until the last day — up 11.
Inconceivable it seemed swerve-y and melancholic then — forms of address changed the ideology into shiny cornsilk throw-up.
The blur of pronouns embodies overwrought subject matter while an emanation turns into a spectre, brought up a peg to clear things with the bosses.
And I’m awake again, once with a face of a poet lost in dream. Or a formal outline. Or lines. I dream about poetry. Sometimes in poetry. It’s like a business. I could teach a course on sleeping practices, call it Meeting Deadlines. My department head would rename it Pathways, tho.
The sexes are divided. So is capital. All I could wish for is 86 floors of hot ass.
Powered by belief, I’m a floater of ‘cynicism,’ gold insouciance, persona non barter. The whole thing just snowballed.
Finesse augurs repression and destruction in an immaculate allegory.
And now the frontiers have all been urbanized. Each new batch is bifurcated, bed-wetters, cynics. Cynics are the dry numb ones we haul onto the arc of cleverness.
My ass is all about listening.
Jonathan stayed and worked with the new birds coming in, who were all “Could you be a little more specific, doctor?” while they rested on the beach after a session of folded-wing snap rolls.
Time to release the hounds. But I’ll stop now. We’ll soon restore the chaos.
Flâneurs who decry how ambivalent I am are missing the point, generally. On the other hand, I get kind of overstimulated by stupid generalizations. I wouldn’t know how to come down on these vital issues.
Do you like spiral staircases?
There is nothing like an emergent semantics to find your voice and produce your prosthetic artifact (flippant, machine-y text).
Ultra blurry and anamorphic, some of the following is actually good. Sort of, I sing alone.
Facts are a marketplace that understands figures are garbled when they are least derivative; ephemeral objective content triumphs. It’s kind of a snob racket. (CB)
I sing thusly, a skeptic steps over and above the deadpan. A moan’s direction is shifting, pasting in its genetic material.
This is how the Frankfurt School’s defenders get nested within a keyboard to determine contingent values in the scheme of the all-species inventory.
Our nervous system distorts reality to emphasize changes in time and space.
I wasn’t orphaned, I just decided to pursue other interests
to get re-elected to her, and we’ll proliferate to here if I try, if I have the confidence we pack — we the blind wiretap the secret she weighs (she gets no credit for this) —
no ripped-off melancholy, no spectral, tiny swaggering to cash in, but here’s a substitution agreement containing you and me in a force field ruched with fart.
It’s taken this long to read the gospel of wealth.
O to be bubble-footed in dark briefs!
I’m still describing opéra bouffe in jeans, preferring lunacy to kissing (ah, affable hysteria), moaning about diffusion at any cost to render your mouth a mess of slop, and that goes for captioning this box Austerity, neatly sleep-laden, eating dog food.
Our vision, tactics.
This is for you now.
Astronauts aren’t perverse, it’s the dress code on the inside. Read this. I did. Resolved, the body is loaded with symbolism for all seasons, the most dangerous, New Year. You’ve got my mind messed up. Sun pours down, unobstructed in your abandoned region. “Prepare the red matter.” The incision continues in this vein...
I’m leaving disjunction behind. To work with you (the plan) is one way to avoid subjectivity tho content is a nominal fallacy like an alloy. I know I don’t know what I don’t know I know.
Holism doesn’t come naturally (Nickolas Christakis). Yet the parts know how to grow (Benjamin Aranda).
A Cretaceous bunny stuffed in an envelope is ludicrous. It’s untidy and young. I basically authorized it. While your back-and-forth is limp clear gel rubbed into my hair/no-hair in all these dubious directions you’re going in until you do (as a gentle pun) onslaughts in a riveting presence, O on the outside, a close-up or two first staged with no sweetness, only credits for adamance.