With the cheerful countenance of an older man who enjoys the subtle notes of detergent combined with his predilection for cock blockery- everybody, both Dick Importunado and I, know what the chemical companies are doing to use the flavor of this blockery to their advantage. They put an epidermal adhesive molecule that reaches the olfactory most cunningly, resulting in a brand preference connected to maintenance of permanent farmlatio.

At least five transmitters surround me with their pentacle at all times, no matter where I move amongst this continental geography. These jibe my mind to dissemble, or urge it to concentrate, depending on their program incentives, the bank warp balance, and my rank within the hermetic galactic ranking. This galactic ranking is local but far exceeds the centralized access capabilities of the subject planet, and the star-cloud computer-stored data is read by a timely scan of the universal intelligence. All the “whens” were once changed to “ifs” and were incompletely restored. An “I deserved it then” kind of manifest destiny attitude with a minimum of coupons proves pivotal. mixed chaotic zealous hypocritical environment. elsewhise I have specifically identified cloud cover, or lack thereof, to engender certain specific mass behaviors across locally economized customers. “The raw native conditions of the planet are what we have- thereat our aviation-based technologies are applied discretely by expert contractors, pending the existence of conducive atmospheric conditions…”

The import of irrelevant peripheral stimuli takes on a slightly friendlier, more cooperative tone of cipher. Some initiatives, though vainly wanted by the fascia of the hallucination transmitter control room, cannot be furnished among the many on the ground by their purveyors arcing between. If an agitative objector within their network’s sphere of influence is too successful or unruly to ignore, the arrayed medias tune in concert against that agent’s sanity, as clearance-enabled operators within the data interface pique the song lists and advertising slant to agitate their layered personalities. Their smarmy sub-audible broadcast of paranoias and invectives clarifies the crack and static of them thoughts to a solvent humming rang. I am the bad calculus mounting. My mother’s mind is made- mom’s man is a made maid- my many misalliances make martyr’s mind morbidly mad. Mean mayhem is monotheism on mother’s mind. My morals are minimized. The transmitter silently urges me to act like the type execrated by the standard.

The rain filtering through the trees taps like many voices on the roof of my ultra-low income housing. I feel your tires snaking through the puddles to report my location.
Why do I feel at home in this cemetery when the magnetically contorted sky uses the sunset as a blasphemous screen of thin bought clouds?
Why do steaming comparisons of mind with known provocateurs circulate so? I claim that the power and pain unleashed in this quantum acting gig will free me from my sorrowful bonds of permanent farmlatio- until then regard me as the hobbled species of humanity that I am.

Shopping just above the lower central terminus of the city of the dead, we join by the coincidence of my becoming stranded. Here we sit facing the gate and the wildness beyond. The transcript of a living law evolving and regressing simultaneously, numinous concern for my appearance delays my stunted gait. This dirt I check on my blood is benign and inert compared to life’s virus- you arrive reportedly trapped in our sharp lack of partnered shopping- stinging now in the dearth of un-craven plans to present themselves for accomplishing this objective. The work of the living is a secret on the weather. The substance of any complaint is the duality- the mimicry. It is like a bedsore in mind from being at my own futuristic graveside. I will commit to you momentarily but if this weather shifts, and our mood changes then our conscious association may terminate.
Do these cross-hairs make my profile look confusing? I gotta telegraph my moves a little better so they can line me up- I find this criminal-ism necessary as part of the inspiration for my act- to uncertain results- Martyr recommends patronizing retailers with an eye toward learning their corporate practices and mimicking them in my intellectual and spiritual life, thereby to profit.

Um, It wasn’t clear from their literature if the factory is nano-sized or if the factory produces nano-sized products. Now the nano-factories come out on chips, with exemplary women presenting them, so clients know where they’re at. Now the Nano-cartel is running Wall St. Their patsies, the citizens reporting their weather are divorced from the true dowsing practice of meteorology. They say what they’re told and point sweepingly for pay. The strange confusion borne into my forecast by their threat to consciousness. “Crossed the cross? Cross the cross all you will.” The absent howling weather encumbers the blankness of my disenfranchisement- but my long established habit is enveloped cryptically. They shop me further toward less necessary franchises, that I might conspicuously display the apparent ability to spend openly in that sector. The retailer they’re subliminally recommending features an sub-integrated commodity distributor so that stalwart browsers snuffling the durable merchandise for the possibility of live interaction can hide behind the affluent facade of purchasing temperature-sensitive trifles. I go casually with purpose to those that I would possess in whole or become not in part- to acquisit my little snack with a mix of directness and pronounced detachment, all the while embarrassed by the brazen story outlined on my brow. that story- overseen and executed by possessors of extreme pulchritude. Our Society event- this beverage transaction- ah- and here comes Dick, known as a clown- one of comedy- but being in fact- a demon. The bank warp employs this Dick- the demon of comedy.
Now that I have purchased evidence of my ability to consume conspicuously, in that way that must say that the cost amount meant nothing to me- and was of absolutely no consideration- I seize upon an interesting durable; leafily it asks “how to architecturally restrain Dick if his fear of imprisonment is negated by a growing desire for free access to captive blob-jax?” It goes: On account of a rumor- that seven generations have passed since a cosmically pivotal deception culminated in a legendary betrayal- Dick seeks to spill mind and guts of an ephemeral prey-” I discontinue consuming the durable’s sample and return to my hot commodity. I know our fucking deal, our methods and modes. If you know what they’re after you for, don’t look. Because they told you that you were not light but dust, a finer version of dirt- and that you were here permanently and not temporarily-I start parking strange places.. Half the sky darkens and half lightens while your charge accumulates. Drawing the necessary density from one section of towering cloud friction using your network of electromagnetically conductive hallucination transmitter towers. In the irony of his wisdom he made you to be especially stubborn against this fact: that your animal in pain so bright is not made of dirt but of water and light. My name is running with blood and I linger pissing thereby at night. Dick counts my cups and my blocks my cock before I walks to the tree, ever too indiscreet. That sour biting inability to pee in public again. Couldn’t I walk to a less precious adornment of nature amongst their silent telling architecture? The projecting h than having the light pursue them and confront them with deepening shadow the entire second hemisphere of the trip. I’m feeling the positive and negative intersession. You’s pass around the secret name of your vegetable vengeance. “It is one thing to have a morbid diet, its another to eat upon it. But what if it is tinged all through with the flavinoids of Eros? Dick emergeth from his hole in the wall.
He swaggers out, and begins polishing a fence post at the edge of the bank warp parking lot. Dick’s tight little buttocks prance custodially, accomodating his perverse rages. These he flies into, Over the both of us blocking our cocks and spraysin the cross. Among the franchises we am all out of free lunch. I see food driving by anonymously. But nearer the graves nature offers it. “withal this fast food and masturbation, Dick, the demon of comedy, has stalked us to the extreme. It has contrived to deceive, entice, and flatly outwit at critical junctures. And that when for my defense I demand “produce the videotape” said evidence is presented, precisely implicating me in a conviction of guilt. What makes Dick a demon is that his comedy supply places me as the butt of all the jokes. Unmitigated interest is taken in producing material from damage that I suffer-all the while I suffer for material. To maintain that aura of demonism over his regiment, an un-amalgamated group of average looking elitists all of whom belong to Dick and his intelligence and data gathering/ analysis/ review agency- “Tha Phallocrats” Nightly they overlook the employee’s online entertainment selections with derisive glee. The pornographic selections in question are compared to a database of concomitant deviations and predilections, and by these characterizations the employee psychological profile is cast for the group and he receives such bewildering titles as ” ? ”

“All your life you adhere to the Phallocratic Standard, and then one day ya idealize a sunset and you’re a Western Standardist?” The worst of aphorisms struts in like a parable. An expensive private patrol vehicle slows, attempting to intimidate me out of my box on the lot. The PTSD I suffer from DMT is an advanced form of time travel sickness. Is my disease damning? Is my destiny diseased? The rumor is that Crosstianism is a phallocentric cult of personality set up to enhance the profits of the weather consortium and the death-belief racket fund…What is the hermetic order of the public? Seeing that my archetype within the hallucination is one subject to communal execration the words of a bad song cling to my voice. The message is a jumbled greeting that is addressed to me and is from my Martyr. It is a refrain of hatred disclaiming her culpability- her guilt in bringing about the shut-down. Now it is granted. This quiet place for my sober reflection and genuine detailed explanation of my actions issues from these pithy inscriptions- over which both of our fingertips have traced decades apart and unsuspecting of one another until this, the very latest- when I am exposed with shame- I share with you the story from this place, situated upon the heavenly precipice to and fro hell. The path to this spot is easy to travel but not so obviously marked. One can infer from the feel of the place what the deal is. A very ugly beauty is furnished indeed. Beyond the tame mountains of the horizon rises a sprinkle of smoke from the garbage fire at the site of the siege.
This estate along the seaward flow of the bank warp, that we are passing nearby is my lost ancestral home. A loser still, close by floats this mist of dispersion. The sky has changed habits since our shack was here- silver stubby roaches scrape the yonder and leave crosses and grids of clouds in their wake.

At rest, the demon waves its torrid fact. Alighting hilarious allegations, an eternal roster- my entire spirit is bent upon cadueces of embarrassment and pain. Dick spake over me with an expert sensory intelligence. The blasphemies the demon rumors of comedy are of the utmost truth concerning me.

“there is that one fucking song there, you know the tune, every time it comes on- doesn’t matter if I’m down at trucker’s, over on the tiller- wherever- yer head down and soaking the bar. These punch-lines- silent lyrics publicly illustrating this or that- right then and there- to those present in possession of the necessary fore-knowledge-ensure that I am in harmony with this suffering. The jokes, as they are, attune me to the leagues of irony seething through the comedic demonic import of reality. This reality is an import, not an export; for it is beyond- and does not go out from me but surrounds and pierces animal stuff with an irony to the spirit spark.
The phone is to ring, so I jump and stare. It goes dark and the fire splits crackling. There is only slight want of chemical accent’ure in the worst form, that of sucrose excitements.
The filmy neglige of my last hope came tearing off in an cosmically articulated “no” of lightning over the full moon, I feel the heat rise behind your discussion. The insects put needles to my blood. The blood puts needles to my mind’s insect. Ghosts crowd the bright shadows . The lit phone is another’s ambition and campiness calling to ape, bemoan and dim my own.
I glimpse that my journey for potential shopping intersects the demon’s selection of sky meat. I cajoles me as I pass. They are there in death, waiting in some promised certainty for me.
Along my solitary little parade route, a warty and portly, wavering rabble beckons their belonging to inevitability- their cosmic separation from and joinder with munching houses.
What is necessary? is for men of good aim and strong weed- to resolve upon a plotted course for the repair of the state. And An armed media arm of walker-talkies to uphold the media needs of the campaign?

you see how they do it- news story after news story seeming to lead to and from one another in agreement

As my spirit is bent upon a cadeuces of embarrassment and pain. As some kind of practitioner the demon jibbers over me evidence of my descent from it, as it is my grand father.

See the full moon and feel the heat rising behind this discussion. The insects put needles to my blood. Ghost scrowd the bright shadows. The lit phone is another’s ambitious campiness calling to ape my own. Immediately the demon of comedy in a mimicry of manly babyhood says “don’t mind me- something wrong with my brain- I’ve got to get this off before I die.”

The demon of comedy has supplied my acquaintance among the living with the fundament of my distractions. The conference in a control room where various tools and advantages are furnished. It might be fun but I cannot decide. Constellations of discussion flash. It is a white cow of lightning beyond the trees. it is warm but not hot. I suspect how the demon operates and why it has a loitering interest in me. i wish I had a mellower pattern of shirt to wear. meanwhile the demon listens, watches, cajoles, suggests, and praises from a jaggling agenda. According to the build specifications of an overarching punch-line of universally gripping irony. It directs, deflects, instructs, deceives, accepts and multiply redoes the opposites of all things.

Now the pain of my potential undoing meets the limits of my ability to exist. The crumbled wall of my vaporous reserve- the multiple discounts I conceive to award myself access to the standard when I am disconnected beneath it enticing as only vagrant latent bits of criminality can when these manifest by serendipity in one’s manifest of possible actions. It is like a little opportunity and negotiation session when the demon of comedy speaks to my mind at the edges of noise. It says just now “Bigger Niche! Switch its back!”

this Dick is most fascinated with secrets, and these most hide glowing red in criminality and sexualizies. Phones ring. I jumps and stare. Offer of hilarity from the stuff and substance of my self’s legend, hoverin along the borders and parameters of numbers of people- astride their communications and ideations. Most shun all but the most confidential commerce with the demon’s all inclusive wit. Me though? It bends coupons of the purest backward cupidity upon me, according to the Western Standard. The phone goes dark and the fire spits cracko. Those who enjoy or accept direction, tax, and benefit from the demon of comedy have its perspectives and opinions in harmony with their own apparent character.( One’s own apparent character can be anything suitable to the continuation of a particular peculiarity or pulchritude.) If one is some comfort enabled of some quite being of quality then this demon of comedy has total awareness of all my information and is attached to my thoughts like a permanent liaison, employed as a contractor for a karmic collections and balance amendment agency. The prompt cajolery paid vengefully, as it is, serves the industry of collections in that it stimulates evasion. If one has some invidiously obtained apparent character in view for manifestation by one’s self, the wit of this being is bent upon or o’er You-s, strictly depending on the actual balance with the warp. “Take up that observation post all you like. The inner ghost? The battle ground? Its your ass.”+ The alignments and fluctuations of strugglers within and without points with the rattling humors of constancy and poignancy- to a plethora of firm examples. You know how when you’re all seasick from being inside the windowless box on the tide as it rises and falls, and all these dizzy pocks rise out of your face and you are them there, with their scaly unpleasantness- rocking about on a heel deciding if that rising saliva is really the real deal. To these I would object but for the albatrossy parastaltic hypocrisy. Objects and excepts “‘Twas emulation for art- I’m no Phallocrat- calibrated ahead of the magnet east of the Western Standard, as it is…” But that horrible melting core of my spirit spark, with my martyr sheared away and blasted, as a martyr must be-
And as the demon of comedy has for snizz and shadow the angel of sorrows- appearance is often mistaken for its opposite.

The Western Standard is a variably enforced code of coupling and commerce. Amendments are slowly added, and only long application of a reformed standard practice alters popular usage. Popular usage has been broadly defined by the Western Standard as interlocking frontal connector sets. Now they line down to tramp across our hearth, so to speak. The demon’s narrative goes out of my ears, and fades to a seamy obscurity. The exo-port of my brain, these ears, lurking and radiating. The sound of conscientiously expelled reversal signals. Waves of implication stroll through my camp. Where is my cohort? Only these critics- arriving en masse- gathering data for their remarks- are here ignoring my interface by showing no countenance. Mine has not fallen. As is removed only the spirit of the law, the lettering does remain. Look at all this traffic- lovely sailing daily past these gorgeous blood fed pines. Allegations were sketchy- though a certain final count was ascertained. That demon is one shrewd counter, routinely and brusquely quantifying things down to the last hundred thousandth. How do I compensate myself with this demon? An old ghost pips “the livin choose the shortest distance ‘tween the two and proceed directly.”It abandons me when I’m without the grubby fundament. Take my body. I have floated here only partly fucked. The lights and noise and ceaseless linear pissing, in passing- once after another- each piss in passing I seem conditioned to forget. Bales, angles and cages, making poison vapor. I do it too, marooned among them. Passing civilians remark on the cloud of my martial scent. So I pass this beauty on a machine, and the demon asks which I would rather have. I take a long time scanning back and forth from the motor to the booty. The oil of each emanates with a sharp invitation. Don’t think about it too fucking lamely! That is one nice beauty. But those machines are built to endure.

We have your savior faire imprisoned forever! We’ve deployed an imposter so the empire still thrives but it is ours now! Tee! An unwitting chauffeur arrives in a burgundy clatter. The noise of commerce in transit blocks my thought about the portent. By default I agree to be guided away by the driven demon. It handily separates me from my bedclothes at midnight then deposits me on a moonlight beach to observe the cold morning. Experience had shown me to employ a prophylactic against the tweakers in that part of the weather systemology, so I jihad a coat. Before abandoning me on this beach, a bunny, unexpected, a real sarxo, making suprising insult, counted off this list of my inaccuracies. It added up to quite an exo-voicing that really brought back some pinched carbon copies and exaporated the buzz I just bought. but they were there, histrionically verifiable as a historic preset in the present. The hot action of the tourist destination under a circling swelter in the ionosphere coming from somewhere in the anthill gives my guts the old trollop in a downward refusal of distress relief…

The demon suggest that I appeal to the bank warp for credit. An intelligence bureau representative arrives and reviews my file. He is a healthy, florid balking mannequin. His garb is thematically identical to the title of my persona. While the agent works, this contractor, associated indiscriminately among the agents from the stupefaction and disposal service arrives. With a spectacular physical incursion of interlopers to the last boundary of legality, these open accusative palms, pale of face and paunchy of swagger, indicate with a sweep that I am “way into them and in their way.” The demon has apparent interest in the compositional narrative of his antics. Permanently sojourning in each other’s realities, our criticisms radiate from foreign standards. But they don’t all call it the universe for nothing. Some quampers are timid about the sprinkle, lest they be asked too directly about themselves. That balance in the one-verse is an up or down jet. As the pasture of the narrative greens a bit, the bank warp contractor stakes another time lapse imaginary representation. The bank warp contractor waves an ambiguous goodbye. Hello? What as he sidles by the wheel did he mean? A short distance to his bivouack, the encampment is of a a rather opulent nature compared to mine, and backs upon my air with a creaking of exhaust, axles and voices. Is this contractor serious?

The assessment he takes seems to be of a legible , lasting recording. The arrangements that the contractor executes are of a most distressing nature. A picnic table dragged. A toilet for six installed-noir.
a contract is a contract. I lower my view and maintain radio silence. But I love that song! It makes me think of sewn mush!
the quagmire of the western standard’s rostrum is a deep rigid muck of usury. Also concession, merit and invidion. The birds I know are from the philandering organization of the ineffable. They send one in to chirp and it works. Now that I can trust! The mundanity of this blandishment is a riddle- Their actions must be adjudged of a superior orderves. From the machinations of the transmitter and the various contractors camped around for the demon- it makes me a bit unsure. Are the birds under contract or are they just so predictable that they’re getting played off? If they are under control and contract of the demon, and I think they are- it seems like they’re on the charitable side of the apparent character of the universe, which just now passed me a customized message in the form a license plate that said bird. Like a surgically confused cat I stalk the filtered barcoded moonlight of the beach where you placed mwa. The peat here is soft and mossy. I mumble steps by fumbling. Thus I pace the shiny pines. The lake keeps roiling so gently. It passes my understanding that it keeps coming in these very forward flat laps, stopping so perfectly every time. What is is Blessed! I understand and concur with mortifying modification of bodily function of Martyr. Her policies and police have led to This painful enduring state.
`Martyr thinks players are just plain wrong-headed. Wretches- wrapped up, in need of a piss. Look at the bicycles! And the jugs, them? They’re not for drinking from, they might likely say, because they ‘aven’t any and want some of anything. It seems like you will abstain from pissing, though you’re invited. You might remember that I had a problem with pissing in public, way back, as recently as 2000. But I’ve solved it. That, and my aryanism and attendant phobias. Licks of technological metal. I saw your chordist surreptitiously playing that b-e key on the hated board of notes. Grinning there smug on the clouds, acknowledging me on my bike climbing the hill toward sunset, depression hammering over the guilt of not having the money but having the wanted be got. Now I find your broadcasts impeccable and I look forward to them, the situation being so dire. There you represent the unfolding greatest disaster in the history of humanity, with a harmless puff a few billion trillion nano-nice ones. With a rod of protection you marshal the waft of death back of save our souls from the fallout-
“Oh, Josh!” When you say limes in the sky, your average reader thinks that you are referring to some fruit, when really you are referencing the grandly strategic empire’s border stations, be they plural in their romantical allowance of partners, on philo-sophistic stoneware of gold, architecture, land and regional economic dominance, with attendant harem comparos.
To Insist with arms upon the antique “original constitution ideal” representative republic is to Die! Be you ready to flee, can be done with the double fried dolphins?Many of you bought this because you expected straight answers on skytoons, and you thought that you could trust a professional consumer of psycho-actives and psychedelics! I’m hungry! It is like this: Having been around the sun a number of times sufficient to comprehend this: that. Thine ultimate brain chemical placement within the sentient human participant network causes a rake analogous to yer dollar or clout values..

“I’m pissing in a jug right now!” Time please. My dersh suddenly darkens as my sentiment sinks. The goose step I practice upon this fairground after curfew- it is because my doctor has specifically recommended the practice of the goose step as a remedy to my back problems- officer-but because of the vim and spite that I perceived from the public as they observed me practicing this goose step in broad daylight- I am resigned to Herme’s practice of making this high chopping of the knees as a sort of decorative bipodalism, along these historic and hallowed grounds.
My terrible hand trembles in fear of this furtivity, I forcefully bid my feet to keep their place over your advert, where I press down on the top of the sonic umbrella I use to confine her to the lower story of consciousness. This I drape so it is just barely tolerable to the lawful guideline pressed upon her by this arrangement within which we are bound. Only the fact that my points contribution is to date on average about a thousand times her points earnings. So I Lord over her up to and including the last tolerable volumetric degree with a bath of jungle-ghetto-tech and top forty garbage. It is a popular formula nowadays. People that have been paying insurance for a long period of time demand some kind of palpable return on their investment, more so than the acknowledgment of hedged liability. for a long time the insurance companies had been awarding white carts to the larger accounts, in whose carriage the countryside was trampled with such organized flanking zeal. There rising from the center of your scripted mim was this swirling nuclear storm, wafting ionizing depression and other terminal radiation.
It would appear that the musical torture device is in fact keeping consumers from making the desired impulse purchases. It seems that in the used household commodities and appliance markets there is a noticeable depression in the closure of sales recorded in the last quarter. The quarter before that also featured no sales and the downsizing of the main retail outlet in favor of the current outlet.
we need them kemt alive and capable of sustaining farmlatio- are there not worse fates?
You see, officer, I would miss that precious little commodity of privacy that you deign to tear away from me- impending such inidignity- that I cannot bear to have you remove this constitutional veil any more! If they come back giving away money they’ll win friends at face value many ways!

Therefore I -press upon you this aural tyranny until such time as your earnings justify my involvement in the outlay of resources vital to the accomplishment of this objective. Adjusting the circumstances of our union so that my stake is the more vital is unacceptable and any suspicious elevation of risk will or may result in our immediate hostile withdrawal. Someone has just release a cricket into our midst.

In my own defense and to hedge against the promulgation of false assumptions I must submit that every member of my patrilineal family, not including my own child has a measurable degree of Down’s Syndrome.

Some stale material is broached twixt the sun and the birds. The momentum of the bread crumb stalls and an illustrated representation of invidious comparison hovers. I look to my tactically deployed wonder, the sense of it, the intuitive healing stroke of destruction dealt like one subtly final F.o.c. amputation of mutated affection in the Name and Spirit of Love. The info-lance is a surgical instrument indeed!

The contractor signals ‘one’ neutral hallo, in respect of my recognizing His role in the event, as if to say no need to thank me! It is true people that when I first came to the board of keys I was strictly out for the total halt of sky tuning and the destruction of the hallucination transmitter. But now, through a common fault of my own possession, I have some high regard for the controllers of the hallucination transmitter. And by some high regard, I ephemize, meaning total reverence. That I say only because I’m being totally honest about it. Examine the function of the bank warp and its kharmic inquisitors. You know them, they’re totally cloaked like a martyr fucker.

Cross-tians! Ride the bucking bronco on thine Bibles backward! The bacon binding and prosciutto pages- delicious scrapture writ in marblin

ߜ
This isn’t a costume, they say.

This isn’t a uniform for the timid. This idolized intersection of murder isn’t the stuff of innocence!!

There is an investigation into the financial activities of this religion, and it appears to be ligitimately artificial. The works are there for sufficient publican identification with the (fiat) articles of fat

My beloved secret savior whom you would not accept if television first existed. Heretofore, Yins am foresworn to oppose any realism, or antithetical logic related to thine cherished nostalgias of martyrish eventation.Funger is fake hunger, that prank call on the stomach auto dialed by the mystery salts in most of these breaded cod-meat confections.

By a transference of sorts during consumption the psyche tries to rid itself of programmed consternations and the like using a variety or graphic “por-noir” examples. the example proffered relates to the specific ambition and being of the consumer, and attempting to achieve this end on the free sites gives the boss a colorful page by page of what the worker has viewed between shifts so he can say “oh, he really likes that one, and its a hot one isn’t it? I rather enjoy it too, from a youthful perspective, and knowing from this auld age what it seems to indicate about the furnace within the mask of the house- what assembled panel of directors and managers, do we seem to agree that it says about our number model on the weekday there? Of all the feminine outlines, I’m always thoughtful- it probably means that I’m more creative om in an artistic way than the others- and I a sylph- have infiltrated them alone, and now they accept this blatant disguise- this thin psychological itimidation something creative and looking stupid as a martyr at an orgy. We got the night dark as ink, omomof, and you can’t wear a hat? We require Phallocrats of strong financial and ambivalent moral constitution
To derail by ambush of blob-jax posed just so that invite to the alabaster bull room of the hermetic order
It is easy to get the invite but it is difficult to leave the order. As a writer I cannot o join o

The doctors of the psychedelic triage unit are attending to a patient: The patient is bristling with fear and sweat, hands clasped to kneecaps and jaw clenched. He seethes about the bitch folk and the doctor asks if the problem that he has in mind is sexual. The patient answers yes and the doctor, taking  a moment to seem to consider says “It isn’t your fault that you were molested.” The patient with a grimace says “I wasn’t molested.”

The doctor is then seen hiding sweaty behind a glitzy curtain gestures toward the patient accusatively and complains to another doctor:”his masturbation scans are normal but he isn’t able to specify which feature of the pictures excite his nerves. 

Living hallmarks chosen for the clarity of their symmetry, the relationship of minds and separation of bodies between observer and the heavenly bodies being observed an advertisement intervenes omnisciently. Certain ratios posed functionally interacting in highly uncanny positions wearing scant fashions. But it’s really her different face. And that sock. 

A comedic anniversary passes without a laugh. 

As a bastion of virtue and pulchritude it is her duty to withdraw her affections in light of this clear and critical violation until such blood tests and genital exams may vindicate her scrutiny. Yeah sure we remember your daddy. Loved to fold socks your dad did. Was a real artist about it. Painted them for a living too, didn’t he? 

 I go to the members section of the secret society and attempt to sign in. The password I bought doesn’t seem to work so I ask for a clue. Since the portal at the entrance can’t tell whether I’m a zombie or human it entitles me to guess a clue that a zombie couldn’t comprehend. The forces vying for leadership represent certain houses. This one in constructive decline represents a freshly painted victorian handed down through her mother’s side of the mob. She tends it with glaring conservatism, chasing the mind into behaving by hinting through color choice of underwear, the edge of fabric appearing in a commonly malfunctioning wardrobe telling of certain possibilities attainable through applied virtue and wait in time. The translation of judgement is through the repeal of charitable flirting where once it played flagrantly. I feel now that she is watching closely and accounting for even the keystrokes I delete before saving. She considers these a measure of my thoughts.

She regards the confusion or clarity of the complexion of my skin. I note that she wears a certain terrestrial constellation, and covers it with a chemtrail haze of makeup. But I can’t blame her the way that she blames me nowadays. She holds a tattered pair a denim booty coolers to the fluorescent lamps and to the crowd explains “well they’re necessary accessories when I’m on the farm…” Pornography passes in an invisible stream from the hallucination transmitter antennae to my super-book board. If I go outside and stand directly in the stream of airspace that the pornography must certainly pass through to get to the plasma screen is it entering my brain first, and can my cells somehow read that information? The nearness of attainment of observed ideals seems to indicate the effect manifested: soporific vs. cancerous. I see that pornography and then people seem lacking in my life. But by the slick insertion of a certain ugliness amongst the beauty I glimpse that you are still watching, interested. Where am I really, in terms of my dearest sentiment, in all of this? 

And where are you? Is your liberal embrace a ruse? 

A plague on the mind grows in the presence of lively machinery and idlers regarding the obelisk’s virtue in common and very highly condense to glory suggestively and gropingly at the soft bastion of the interface.

I see untended action creeping in at the periphery and I suddenly make no action to contain it. An operative blue heat alights in my guts making me want to poop. But only distantly. I stare into fantasy and reality glares back. We blink.  By the side of your face you keep turned I can see that I still matter.

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