06
Jul
11

a handful of contemporaries

He understood deeper and deeper and couldn’t stop himself and it was an illness and why couldn’t he be surprised given what they were planning and all. But the room smelled of good fresh breath and lushful tears. He was boiling a big pile of stripped wooden boards. Primitive art pieces. In the middle of the crease you could see what they said and it made him sit down like a gentleman. Squared forward. Pages had no idea at all in his head. Took charges. A great deal of daft sounds filled living room through his monster voice. It was a bad throw at the dining room chairs. Such a creepy use of assonance. Nameless blood with the ambiguity of cutting balls. The cerebral cortices were going to go round and round. No space or atmosphere to cross words without hurting anyone else. Hidden in the spins of Kama Sutra. He knew he was sick yet sober as a gallstone. A barrel of laughs slit through his neck. There were many remorseful moments in the absence of doubt. The legacy of incomprehensible inside out that no longer mattered. As they had proved, if this was the case, that was supposed to last for three blinks. The tomb of discourse to the mantra of context. The remnants of unjustified opinions. Their claims that they were acting in the name of depression were all senseless in their own monumental failure. Labyrinthine liberty became iconic and ironic through his exploration of disinformational evidence polluted in the books. The sudden looming of bedridden principles in various chives of societal poetry dazzled his sensory organs. Because they were not about opinion and most notably denied open house attack. That in our day and age was one of a kind nutso case with self translation you could see from your predecessors.

-th


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