To
the contrary we go with handfuls of rice, casting bits into the lagoons in
between concentric dimensions. It's like the cornucopia of wealth, of
starvation, of untold umbrella factions, of preternatural velocity. We are
rushing out on our milk stones, on our tempted roustabouts, on a wink of
foreboding. Erasmus kept the key-holder trapped in a grasp or a clasp: we can
never be sure because the bikers sealed off the hull and continue to trial the
knob that asks 'why'. Asthma drains my source material and therefore makes me
unable to predict futuristic events outside of a liquefied horizon.
Here
is the plan of attack: thrust the quick quilts against Erasmus' rawhide and
watch the coolant pour out of each executive nostril. When enough time has
passed, reach under his chin and dissect stripy lozenges. Apply these lozenges
to a unique formula called Compound Sac and fling it around the children's cot.
See it burn the shaving cream, see it rust apart the lightning round. It's
exactly the sort of thing that causes sudden death in red-headed hatchets. That
way you can make plenty of room for proud footings and complimentary quiche.
There could be probabilities happening right now and we'll never fix ourselves
from this didactic spot. And so it was.
But
should it not be, bind the cotton with retro-thrusters and cast the vitamin
diamonds to the crusty hemisphere. The clouds eat their own out here, they're
all made of dust and structural cannibalism. It makes the man's hand a sliver
against the carved-out dawn, maybe even finding the twist in the cable in the
middle of the heavenly calculator. It all makes for a hard formula to
compromise, all it's swerving black marks and wrinkling fields of abstract
thunking. It could be merging and making staples out of our tacit hairs but
it's too proud to be so architectural.
It's
not that we don't care, it's that we shouldn't. These days the dust covers and
flicking the books back and making them into golden watches worth a
multi-screen on the market. It would sooner loose the tapestry from the
werewolves' clutches without even touching the neatly-trimmed nails of success.
The diaphragm leaves us truly demonic, it lets us smoulder in our own desire
for truancy and lima beans. It makes the arm bands drip away into harbingers
for the ant people who lie beneath the faltering carpet. We could spend our
time thinking about ways to make Erasmus beg for mercurial majesty but to do so
would be a waste of a perfectly sweet and rummy hamper.
Medicine
is supposedly the answer but how can anyone be certain that the chemicals can
even help? The people of our fair city cart around feasibility so we don't have
to, they go about their days doing little else but throw caramels against
business suits. It's only Tuesday and choose me outright or face the failure of
blurry principality. I'm sorry, it just makes me so horrifically mad.
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