Quilts
and forgiveness go together in the grimy pocket of time. Maybe life is a
complication, a complexity that refuses the answer like it does the question.
Maybe it is a swaddling catheter that binds the hand and drains the eye fluid
one dollop at a time. Maybe life is unlike the universe, maybe it's a grin that
cannot be found in a picture of curved flesh. Maybe pulverising prosperity is
all we need to think about for now on our mortal aeroplane. Did you remember
the baggage? Of course you did. You're perfectly reliable in that respect.
So
curtsy to the sweltering clock hands and make sure you've kept your finger to
the pulse all your eternity. So bring the carriage round and decide where it
would be best to go next and throw the map out of the window. Leave it to me,
I'll cut the thing to ribbons. That's what's best for it, don't you know.
Salamanders eat burnt paper like it was raisins and unholy dialects. We'll
leave behind a powder of our livelihood. It's what the world would want as it
sees us out through the back garden. The world loves all its guests but sends
them through different exits like prejudice is a sweetener of the deal.
Liars
and frugal incompetence are soon parted when schisms begin. The game begins
anew and there's a bigger gap to cross. Vines will suddenly be needed but
they'll have to be rationed out. That's the way it goes in business, climb all
you want you're going to slip sometime. Quasi-safety is the best escape method
though it rarely dresses up as a net. There's nothing safe about nets. Rope
burns. We've all seen the dark cloud's rotting teeth and tendency to spit at
thirsty heretics. Erasmus is it's conduit.
The
last remaining choice is to stupefy the dark and expect it's pound coins to
come rolling out in dollar bundles. Dartmouth is the pyre for grogginess and
perspective. Dive headfirst into text and let's see how the backsplash plays
out. My guess is it's all acidic, tastes like thunder sprinkled with fire
water. Here: download the recipe and see what I mean. What are you talking
about - it'll only take five minutes of your life, you're doomed if you don't.
Don't be twat, eh? Dastardly rosaries are clasping their hands as if in prayer
but they're really tapping out a message to the final pitfall. Fifty days left,
is what you've got.
So
what can you do with fifty days? Why, think of course! Wear your tiaras and
beckon the vigil of nonsense like you would do when you call your kids to come
in for echoing practice. Stand-off with the cat's tail and choke that bastard
Mr. Nobody before he calls the police and reprimands our petty gargantuan
souls. Us fools are the most serious individuals in the business so challenge
their bias with a spit bubble. Quotients of mind-bending shall teach these
babes to die.
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