05/01/2014 - ALL OF YOUR CHILDREN

All of your children don’t quite understand the dark symphony as many Christians would hope to see. They just want to go home to take photos of the crucified bloke and wax lyrical about the way he wore his hair and the understanding of positrons he exhibited in the really early days. We picked them from the crop, these people from the mountain and this is what they do to spend their time on this wilful earth, the one we’ve been culminating for over fifty micro-millennia. We sacrifice and we sacrifice and we make sacrificial statements from various slinky bills and all the comments that seem to be annotated in the margins. Are you really wont to hear nothing from the primping shadows in their grey grimacing coronets? Are you seldom like fixed tastes in women? Sleeping is for the untroubled and reckless and apt for spiritual debate when all the blades have been tucked away into their hidey holes.
            Columns of smoke go quick to the oven just at the sight of the clamped sleeves sliding back to reveal the depressed wrists and deified connotations. You knew she lived while we weren’t sure or certain or picking spuds and apple cores out of specifically situated bins in the Western District. Your eminence will come nearer while our history will deplete all limiting factors, sending them off on tremendous trips to the seaside. Living happens you know, it is a scarcity we permit out of the centrifuge just to keep things interesting.
The walks that the grasshoppers tend to take are fascinatingly heart warm and deserve definite appraisal in front of a fine glass of slime green wine with its label up in the air and completely forgotten about. The hill climbs can stun the inner thighs of most snappy jazz quartets but at least you'll never be lonely in your nerve-ending pain. All you will see, apparently, is a weakened stick slashslashslashing against the jelly bowl of your brain box and the giantess that you always believed might come to take you to oblivion for a quick snack and a few handy drug tips, will shatter your fear into a fragile knitting unit and transfer the rebound energy into a nice little earner. Forth is the direction we promise, back isn't a direction at all not with all the work we put in whilst you loo-roll fiends cast your crew off-balance. There is a certain area where dogs tend to go to snort their eyesight away and gobble up the steam trains you sometimes come by when we give in to a high level score. This is the chance to be gracious but you go all gratuitous and leave us with only our wit, commitment and temptation to move stuff around while you sleep. The game activates, the game renews, the fork tongue of our score will destroy your pristine collection of wartime nachos. Why you even collect them is beyond the pale and doesn't bear sawing one off about.