Oh, mercy—the problem of the placeholder…blurred lines and new sensations. The worst critic ever, the worst critic, beat the world through a paucity of facebooking. The paucity of facebooking? People were having lots of babies, prospecting for that better possibility of becoming relatable. And me? A selective pain in the selective ass—selective symbolic memory. Who controls the story itself? She who tumbles in the rhythmic something. Tumbles with? This brings me to the Reformation.
I’m not comfortable with the way he talks about feeding cattle blood to the animals. So old and condescending. I do NOT like him, or his dispelling the myth of the naïve nonconformist. You see, my relationship with power breaks down less now that I let emotion, passion, and feeling decide.
Smite the clock before it starts to duplicate my body. Twiddle, bite, and down its filaments: they’re alive and finifugal and spit forth Hawking radiation. Fast, lie down and pray for that most famous gesture that no one saw or heard, the lesion of appreciation.
Remember, the pile you set aside sometimes is the pile you were interested in, but not the pile that you’d kept for its compelling misinformation, rather the pile from Wyndham Lewis in Cambodia, the pile that did not convert, which is more a pile of awkward metaphors, Buddhist responses carrying throw-away wishes, moronic guesses, unlike the pile in line with catholicism, its circulating, the sometimes pile.
(I got it all, but I wasn’t sure where to put these left over parentheses.)
Inside a large doll collection, the research group deferred all strenuous thinking, having found that up to eighty-two percent of husbands and wives make changes under the sign of financial difficulties. Dystopian drones outside the one garden on earth, they support the volte-face of more than sex partners—of compensation plans and email accounts. Honey, you can die at any time during delivery.
I wanted to try a bagel in the most extreme situations, to hear it go >tink< in the toilet. I’m a dude; I’m superman. The top of my head makes a hairdryer and tells me a secret. In the words of the child of David Blaine, “If we can do speculative storylines, what are you doing?”