[A Modest Revision]

I suffer from shaving in a symbolic realm.

A head transplant brings on the knowledge affect where cloud equivalents prosper on a narrow isthmus, watching the seasons float in willpower. I never understood insinuation. I never misunderstood it, either, a civilized divide teasing my attitude into an admonitory tableau sponged with saliva.

All the algorithms are just fine. You can go right in. They have an open table.

Titles cost.

Again, I’m doing an accordion fold, an étude, a documentary-incarnation about officialdom in sensibility. The plot concerns a guy named Ethan who meets a younger guy named David with a vinyl sleeve up his tuchus. I’m just using this idea or this word as a springboard to bring my intentions to a mystical place within a rational theme of imprecise turmoil, everything recycled. As a new definition of the trickle-down we witness destruction of the blues pub and its improvised scaffolding, disintegrating like runic practices, flung out interiors silhouetted in acrylic behind a projection of glass as it screens the ‘official’ episode. However I believe that I’m past the middle and nearing the end of the cycle; now it’s late summer numbered with incidents. I’ll experience irony as homesickness without inebriation, long division, complex facticity that wounds tear open and heal slowly for some kind of urban equipment (equipment??) in the future, enduring pain and disappointment and failure, climbing uphill and sliding back down just before turning 17, biting down, gritting my teeth, growing up a little, suffering a little moving in with my parents because they like me... I just don’t worry: It’s my best work, a tight 100 pages so far of narrative casually parading as self-help boilerplate turning in polyphonic leitmotifs. It’s a cap-and-balance in Godzillian scale, reflecting what happens when melt re-ices, raising sea levels. Just hope I have the backbone. My greatest fear is going deeper into my inner trippy, conceptual junk — I’d be dragging a palm frond around at four a.m. That would kill my parents.

Your reading was beautiful, well pronounced. Perfect make-up. But boredom is poor experiment; that’s what we said to snap out of lightness, joy, the eyes-open dream. Knower and known are clean, osmosis in reverse! It’s clearer every day we're way behind the public, our public. And I’m less affected by less meaning, un-giddy like you. The “ding dong” in “decay,” you said. I’m hoping something happens. Duly of course sounded, I cover my throat.

“It’s nice to be interrupted twice.”

Felatic.

Today's highlight from D.C.'s escorts: “You can change yourself into infinity, but still get the changes to the location from where you left...” That feels very clear, to me.

iconic breach

a charter culled

60 neurons to make a documentary

tow rim

nominalizingly scant

bud kin

xenomorph

Cy Twombly, R.I.P.

As you say, it's too late for a nervous breakdown. There are gaps we see now and through. Louis Pasteur enjoins the loyal center. The candy ass.