22/12/2013 - THIS IS THE WAR LIKE A SICK BREATH

This is the war like a sick breath in the meddlesome triumvirate of the developer's soul. It is candid and passes quickly and with only minor flourishes and the occasional fizzle into an misunderstood microphone. I have a hat and I guard it well from the rats that seem to seep out through the crack in your tidy door. It hurts to see that incest still exists beyond the four corners of your land of divulgence. It still hurts to let go of the shady trees that replace me whenever I choose to think about it. It hurts to be replaced, resurfaced and resurgent. This, of course, is only at times of great and imperial distress.

Your lesbian garners interest in years of incitement and entangled yard sales that lead on the misinformed in ways that the secret services wouldn't believe. I know all the services and they don't hide their quarters or dimes in sock drawers, they spend them on actual fairy liquid bottles. The fandango happens just exactly as it occurs, in a mainframe filled with cream cakes and thumb wars. We're back onto the rifle, fondling the rifle with bearded hands and retroactive glands. Diameters go by lightly with sorry expressions slapped across their mugs and dangles. It locks on and lobs off with chatty gay vocals fed into bland saris.

 

So then I woke up, feeling worse than tears in the afternoon of the apple. Everything that burns here has a cushiony smell, a powdered noise that goes on until the end of time. Show me what you can do with this idea and I’ll wind your mind around DNA and blend it with the internal structure of the eternal helix. These days to come will see good tidings for you and your cybernetic consequence, it may see all seven nations banding together underneath the common goal of forming the constituent parts of your amusingly blue flag. The family is coming forward with the technology to make your ascension credible in most media circles but after that you’re on your own. Everyone has their hands tied for pure speculation, minimal interference. The spotlight is on the patisserie and you are in that patisserie.

 

Nevertheless your print needs more copy and I need a tequila shot straight to the stomach in order to get my head around the hyperbolic tinsel that seals the deal for most ceilings. The webbing is automatic and the normal segues just aren’t cutting cloth in the same way that they used to. Time will spread across the room like deodorant and the shot across the bows will sound like an elderly man coming down the stairs. The inches are slow and the hairs on his head grow with the implicit intention of curling against the grain. People tell me that that’s more like how the world should be but I’m inclined to slap them silly until the ancient trinket box opens and all their family heirlooms regain formalised structure. This is the respect of a generation flooding towards Edinburgh, dear God.