I lower your voice. Somewhere, what’s a sociopath?

I go by a few names down the road soaked in a Mars invasion.

Say I’ll be back. You never can tell. In a heartbeat I do yesterday over and pick someone else. Your movements are still uncoordinated but hidden by underwear.

Heavenly and new, classic and so easy, unforgettable elements in our touching and holding the moment, surrounding it with illusions of taking off, quiet and respectful in the nick of it.

Everyday nudity earned us subpoenas with balls that just turn. And that’s how we fasten the starry messenger to move around objects. It’s always a swing reunion in the ritual expanse of where there was a whole new side of nuts and bolts, narrow and hollow in the center, along with a vacuum and wheels.

100% our touch.

If you’re stagnant, you’re dead.

I forget remembering along with your interforce rondure ’cause I’m selfmade in spring and cairn-headed, unembowered by overnight moria. This lets counselor affidation “swish” forward and backward passing thru the 1st position of the sprout.

It’s written that was enough. O May!

Evil brings so much to the table. I remember when politics was a machine.

When the blood type was fresh no one got the blame. Visceral v. intellectual? Dopey red (Perseus) v. radiation (his mom).

A ballerina crosses Walnut St. Compare her silhouette to anyone’s who doesn’t dance. A politician acquires some form of correspondence to her, a verbal equivalence to her process repertoire.

Falsehood is an actuarial stat, one more subjective state, a quality, not an elevation or height.

In the dimension whatever it’s fame v. work that mouthpieces for ideas rolled into burbles and spools, pedestrians sweating lead colors.

Nero fiddles for the top one percent.

In the parallels between old Savannah and Wellfleet I would like to see or set up sometimes to be shown the dissolved thread to narrative, the needle and my as it were point.

I am one with the chain. That was all I felt. I left the door to the heck with higher travel personally ajar.

An idea dawns as I back into the slurry. The charge is to fail to remember the (mission) exchange = chat from my repressed side to save us from scrapping our early decisions.

Anyhow, a square shape bolted down the blips in a complex-repetitive topology for interpretation as valves ground to put me into effect.

Me first then the face of.

Let’s be fair, the partnership was an accident enjoining all boosters to nail a spirit of equity in the flux of japanned rows of platters of of.

(Face of: everything looking glazed or remedial past the exercise and expense within the detail.)

Yet I have no regrets the I-origin-point is classy-sociopathic. So what info intrudes feeding calls mystically within earshot? bringing irresolution to the climate, a stone rattle hidden like buttergrass in plain sight? End of story.

Triumph is creepy.