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prayluud



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Gossamer Plants

She is perhaps smaller than she ought to be. Her white dress in so adorned is coiled lace embroidery. Her face betrays a royal lineage dating back to the house of the world empire that once united the tangled frays of a misguided history. Her black button nose twitches in the cold as the wind blows wisps of ash across the faded image of time. The image is impressed upon her through years of discipline, she has studied the history with an interested fervor because she knows it is significant. And she would never doubt it, although she never considered to, because the image is a world that makes itself clear only to those with a will to seek it.

The maidens' party will not await. Awaiting, considering the forgotten avenues of consideration, taking nowhere towards and empty shell of being have been befor, to not remember that this world is significant and will appear at the most nervous and fickle glance of the flickering pupil.

	Soon, it will be time for me to return to the troupe.

The Sparrow is dressed in blue. He walks one foot front the other with a facing forwards approach, towards the cliffside. His eyes are large and bulbous and they wont to shut are under a circumference of darker shadow; nervousness his key virtue; the eyes dry and darting in miniscule steps; steps before. Struggling with the infilic laughlas, laughin in a nervous inside his head, the geometric carving of his accentuated scalpus buried deeper in the mind. Think to tell that this is not what was supposed to be the afterwards necklace dangling fervently before his eyes, I thought, that being me myself The Sparrow, that it should not be such before the tide is such to be unrevealed to the darting eyes of people watching it fall. So understand that I mean no harm, when I say, the message you were waiting for is not to come today.

Love is an interesting thing, in part for the ways that it defines the things which fall under its scopes, but not exactly facing here I wonder if Love is the proper judgment for what happens here, because it is not a simple thing to arbitrate.

	Troupemaster wants you now; do not forget to call, for she lacks you.
	And it was only a matter of time.

	The Master of the Troupe is in a twisted woods hallway when the Sparrow and his envoy find her, she is nervous pouring over sheets of lyrical notation not noticing they arrive and speak to her addressing her As Such, 'Lady Spoon, I've come for the rehearsal. I hope I am not too late. I hope I have not caused any trouble in my absence. I needed a moment to myself' ; 
'The Lady Addresses Me, Ahaha, Daisy, I have not been awaiting you. You are sooner than you ought to be' . Not contented and pleasured and slightly untroubled to understand I have left myself for nothing at the moment, so await now being I sit on a nearby bench and the Sparrow is in my company. Don't worry yourself, his breath is a wooden rattling, his ligaments bend perpentus motion as I looks perpendicular my eyes not expecially bold. 'Ahaha, I'm sorry, I was in mistake' . But Daisy the maiden is not bothered by his fact but her own inability to make judgment of the particular sort of timing we find ourselves wrapped before the nature of passage makes itself perfectly vivid in the naked eye. She taps her small claw of her feet in rhythm against the pavement. She sits in nervous thought and her tail wrapped around her thigh twitches slightly and tickles slightly her other. Sparrow himself is sitting awkward to close barely too close, not knowing. She can smell his pine wood. She can feel his weight on the crookedy bench. She can see his silhouette in the amber darkened shadow that splays across the floor.

	The nervousness a symptom of the theatre, meekly tasked to be one for an audience of perfectly rounded thoughts
	The nervousness a containment of the ablong sucture nervousness in the perpetuity
	The nervousness a meaningful glance towards the woods hallway where a destination awaits
	The inability nervousness to move sevenfold before the destin
	The destin nervous poking perpent falible notions of Trust and Belonging
	The time nervous approaching timely nervous time of love time
	The nervousness a symptom of the continued inability to understand exactly what lies below the foot
	The nervouse a containment not understanding exactly why might is to be understood
	The nervousness laughter of a meaningful glance
	Nervousness a salt
The time is third passage second cycle

The ticking of the clock is noticed and taken note of

'Daisy, would you be kind enough to hold the frays of my cloak as I resituate the button?' Daisy smiles at her friend not knowing if the smile is understood or even if it is registered. She places her hand on the taught loose tangling fabric cloth side's blue faded silky edge and grips it as he settles his appointment. 


Rabbit is trying to teach his little sister how to tap-dance.
Bunny is not so sure about it.
Annie offers subtle nudges of encouragement but she is also not sure about it.
'That's not how you do it. Put your left foot first. No, your left foot, you doddling dunce.'
'This is my left?'
'That is your right foot. I am telling you to use the other. I am telling you to use your left foot.'
'Aha! I'm using my left foot. What do I do now?'
'Now use the right one'
'This is the one you just told me to use. You said the other one was not right'
'No, your right foot, the one opposite the left foot. You are a stupid person, you know that?'
'Aha'
'There. Okay. Now go back to your left foot.'
'I've never seen it done like this before. This isn't how you do it.'
'You're not doing it right. Listen to me and I'll tell you how to do it exactly.'
'One foot... In front of the other'
'Now it's time for supper'

He is making a circular motion with his index finger and smiling stupidly when I notice the two passing by. The second says, Hello, my good dear, will you follow me? But the first one says, I have not got the time for this. I am learning to do the back-and-forth motion with my paw. So I get up and I follow them to the mess hall, because they are walking so slowly and clumsy-like that I cannot resist just tailing them at a short distance. It's not so different from standing still and watching the stars fall.

The time is fifth passage second cycle. The clock is a nuisance to us all.

	'Hello there Serafi, Daxta, Merori. How are you doing right now?'
	'Good!'
	'Just fine'
	'...'
	'Well, how about this? I have some milk for you all to raisen the spirits'
	They smile at this. It is a welcome break.
	'My milk is cold'
	'Yes, well, you were a bit late, dear.'

After dinner they return to the stage where they meet up with Lakami and his good friend Dime. I don't like these two expecially because they have a tendency to get into trouble where it has no business being so troublesome. But everybody else seems to like them because they are good people with a good sense of humour and a strong moral compass. We sit down beside them.


Rabbit is preparing his Act on Stilts. The others are watching in disbelief. Suddenly there's a noise from the back foyer that's loud enough to catch everybody's attention. Bunny's ears stand up in shocked terror. There is a hustling and a bustling. Suddenly everything is a hazy fog of disconcert and cacophony, and it is the Sparrow who opens the door to the back foyer amidst the disarray. In there there is a torquoise thing eating bits of cookie dough and getting flecks of chocolate and spittle all over the shoes, and some even lands on Spoon's scarlet jacket, and everybody is suddenly in a cacophony (again) . 'Make it stop! Somebody needs to stop it! Troupemaster will blame me! She'll be upset! There Will Be Bloodshed! Of the highest degree!' Sparrow is having a conversation with the shapeless mass, and it chuckles spewing even larger flecks of salad on the wind turbine that was kept there for safe keeping. 'I am not a diplomat nor am I the ambassador of this peoples, but I will give you seven gold coins if you will leave and eat your meal elsewhere.' The turquoise thing nods in solemn understanding, and Sparrow smiles a little bit which is not uncommon for an ordinary person. 'Better yet, leave the unbaked goods to me. They are actually the property of Miss Lusy.' And then he is in its mouth, and the disconcert turns back to the closet and away from itself. 'Woah! He's gotten Helicks! We've got to rescue him!' another voice murmurs 'Good enough to be rid of him.' This is the moment when the Troupe Master Spoon strides awesomely onto the stage and lays her cane towards the floor so that it is clashing against the floor. 'Did I hear my name?' and Somebody says 'No, I don't think anybody said your name' 'By the Mother's Graciousness, what has become of the back foyer??' (A turquoise thing in the shape of a man) 'It's nothing! Go away! Trouble yourself better!' But it is taboo to address the master so brashly, and this will be addressed later. 'By All! The Thing has had the nerve?' Everybody is a little bit confused now because they no longer know quite what they want out of this situation. Rabbit is the first to speak. 'It interrupted my rehearsal as the long limbed daddy of nine! Kill it! It must die!' But Spoon is smiling wryly and radiantly as she walks up to the thing and pats it on the thing with her cane. 'Marus! What on earth has become of you? Has the fields of Beckleham not fiddled your string? Has the great expanse proven too meager to hold your massive radiance? O Woe! My Marus!' Now everybody is confused for everybody different reasons but personally Daisy is the first one to ask. 'Huh?' 'Oh, never mind, I will have it taken care of' Daisy asks, what are you talking about? But the daisies in the field of Becklahem sway easily against the wind from the peaks capped in golden sunlight and the grain does not answer for the slightest of askings. Wondering lily in the broken day glass has an inquiry that caresses the fabric of time in a broken piece of water cressed diamond rings. The woods are a faded fabric in the backdrop of evening sunlight fading scarlet in the evening horizon past the forest. Toadstools no longer grow there. The earth that once held answers now offers only a dry compliment on the Field of Becklahem.

Ask me for the time and I will tell you there is no clock here, because such distractions can only bar the legitimacy of a proper performance. Sparrow is later found in a confused daze just past the chain linked fence, covered in a translucent slime and some other chunkier substance whose nature never became known because he promptly took a shower upon getting back to the house. Later they find Fern, who was the one who questioned the legitimacy of the Troupe Master's presence, she is crying in a heap outside the main office but the morning after she is as radiant as sunshine. In the basement, somebody else has different plans. His name is Xavier, and he is a wicked bully. A little while later, Bunny is walking past Xavier when he trips her with such a stealthiness that Rabbit does not realize it. 'Look at what you've done. You've fallen on your face. You're a proper Lonky Bottom' Bunny bursts into tears and hides her face in her chest and covers her head in her hands and Rabbit wants to suddenly wind back the clock so maybe he can be less of a dimwit. Xavier is the one who calls his bluff. 'You're a monster! You're going to be unpopular! Stupid Daxta!' Now Rabbit is on the verge of tears himself and he says 'Shut up Groulanym, nobody even likes you anyways.' Xavier shuffles off fuming and cursing into his own braincells. 'Get Up! Come on we have to go!' But she is crying really hard for some reason and Rabbit is turning as red as a beet and drooling a little as he chokes back sobs. 'Fine! If you don't want to come I'm going alone!' And he leaves his little sister in the airplane hallway as he trips away towards the place where Ahlly told him the crow hawks are leaving their napsacks.

The time is sixth passage second cycle.

'How long can you keep this going?'
'I'm going to keep it going on as long as I can'
But the little red train has already slowed to a falter. Sparrow looks down at his hands in mild disappointment and then returns to winding the stock cork screw for another round at the testing bout.


At the staple grounds there is a black mountain that stands like an erect nipple and sours the view for anybody looking that way in hopes of finding peace of mind. When Sparrow went there his main takeaway for the others back at the house was that that place is lifeless and barren, the ground is so flaky it seems as though it could collapse under your weight at any moment. And moreso was the thing he brought back, because it was not really something you'd expect to keep as a souvenir but you'd have to imagine there was nothing else better to find up there. Now, whenever Rabbit looks to the East, he has a habit to think about his mother.

---
sibilance of askings

An old magicians tower stands on the outskirts of the Opera field, between the knotted dead trees and the crystal twinkle creek. It is abandoned now, but there was a time that tower was a prime hub of commerce among members of the community. It was originally owned by the goh Lamine who had it commissioned and originally used it as a personal library. It was eventually opened to the public when Lamine died when the works of the great architect Lakiti were being celebrated across the field. The Tower served this purpose, originally as a community hub and later a gathering place for the most elite magicians after the name Lakiti had been forgotten, but the magicians left for places below Nazharam at the time when magic was becoming scarce and the tower fell to disuse. Now Magic has left the world entirely, or so the Clarius Faye would have you believe; but that man has been known to decieve in the past, and it is not a stretch of the imagination to believe that Magic is still here among us, hiding in the crevices between work desks and the forgotten places we left to the passing of memory and the devices of smaller things. In its most essential form, Magic is purely the ability to alter the world as it exists and make a new world for yourself that is not entirely removed from the world experienced by the people around you. Therefore, Magic does not diminish except in a world where there are not other people and where there is nothing but myself. It was the belief of magicians that Magic would disappear entirely in a world where people have become content with the musings of the past and would rather spend their time exploring avenues of thought separate from the damages of intermingling with other forms of Magic, as interaction damages us always, so they become my own magic in a world where there is nothing but self. But this line of thinking is perhaps outdated, as the past has proven itself to always be infinite and everybody has abandoned the present together. We have, ourselves, become a contradiction of the further existance of the self. But Nazharam forgets you, so as to always be Order in an ever expanding array of chaos. But Nazharam itself was forgotten a long time ago.

There is something different about Sparrow
	This is how the day usually goes for Sparrow: He wakes up feeling a little bit nauseous
	and cleans his teeth with an assortment of precision metal tools and air brushes,
	and then afterwards goes to the stage where he will meditate on the day's performance
	Or rather if there is no performance today he would rather consider things of the
	letigous variety.
And he will stay there for seven hymns at least, but today when Lakami and Rabbit went to check he was nowhere on the stage. But they were not there looking for Sparrow, so nobody made a comment. Instead they went right past the stage towards the grand preparatory area, because today they would be having a guest.

	Wilbur is a cat. There should be no doubt about it. He may dress in starlit robes and wield a twinkle power wand, and he may so speak in adorning his speech with the highest of niceties but in his heart of hearts his inner heart he is a cat and I will not have there be any question about it. I watch nervously then when he enters the wooden double door and meekly wobbles inside the lobby. Lakami and Rabbit arrive here a moment later. 'A real life magic man! By my mother!' I am too timid to observe who said this but it sounded like Lakami's voice. 'I don't believe it for a minute. You're going to have to prove it to me.' My voice squeaks 'Clarius is a magician what is even the big deal anyways...'
	'I've been having my doubts. Have you ever seen him perform a miracle? Because I haven't. And what's the point in being a magician if you can't even perform a miracle?' Rabbit is the one who is doubtful. But there should be no doubt that Wilbur is a cat expecially because what he says next 'Sometimes it is something other than a miracle that will make the biggest difference.' His voice is weak and billowing in the wind like a fabric cloth. I expecially hate cats. They want to get under your skin. I swallow because I'm feeling tired now. He smiles with his horrible sharp teeth and even Rabbit looks nervous for a moment but Lakami is a fool. He extends his hand in invitation and Wilbur takes it weakly like his hat is weak. 'Are you really hoping to live in the old tower up north? Because you should know a ghost lives there' lives there lives there I already leave the room because I'm starting to cry, but I didn't notice it until my nose is running.

I feel an aching in my loin and run off to find Alma my love. We have been experimenting with new ways of touching one another and I recently found his weak spot.

	Later in the afternoon Attikus is showing Wilbur around the place. It's not very common for the operahouse to have a new guest and everyone with no prior appointment is creeping not far behind some recent corner as they navigate the halls. 'This is where you will be staying until we are sure that the tower out there is safe.' He is referring to the small room in the attic and Wilbur looks a little bit downtrodden when he says that. 'I can take care of myself. The truth is that I'm really only here as a courtesy' but Attikus would rather be sure and his response is swift as he says 'I won't take no for an answer. You know there are abominations on the field these days. I don't want you getting yourself hurt or even killed out there.' Wilbur smiles shyly. 'But of course I came here from the outside. I can make myself invisible, undetectable to monsters.' Attikus looks skeptical. The others are excited to see a magic trick. 'Do it! Make yourself invisible!' But Wilbur doesn't have time to respond because suddenly he disappears. Somebody screams so loud you can't make out a voice but it's a little bit silly to be screaming right now. It's not really a trick because it's real, it actually happens. Lakami yells in triumph 'Hockey Sticks! I TOLD you!'
	Wilbur eventually concedes out of politeness, or at least that's what you'd assume, because from this time forward for a measurable distance of time he began staying in that old room in the attic. The others barely see him and he hardly comes out at all, presumedly magicians don't need to eat quite like other people, or at least not so often. When he does come out he looks like a fettered rag, and he shambles towards the kitchen for just a little bit. He doesn't go out on stage or bother the others very much. It's a little bit embarrassing if I'm telling the truth, he spends so much time in that little room he must have some sizeable projects working themselves through inside his noggin. That is the way with magicians, after all. They're always spending so much time trying to figure out ways to help people they usually end up being always alone.
	It's evening of the following sonnet and Lakami is playing an independent card game that measures the player's ability to think in a counterintuitive manner while juggling the need to maintain a consistent balance of plans. Attikus comes onto the stage and speaks with a grave tone of voice. 'Sam, I think it's time for us to go see what's happening at the tower by the forest. Norun hasn't come back yet even though it's been a while.' Lakami coughs into his mouth and darts his eyes slowly. 'A hm, yea, alright, then.' They exit the stage by the front door and proceed cautiously up the processions hallway. When they reach the outer threshold Rabbit is already standing there looking smug and a little offended. 'Didn't think to ask my help? You hurt me, Atty.'
	'I didn't mean it. You're busy. You need to be taking care of Merori. It's your responsibility as the older sibling. You're all the family she has.' Rabbit turns a little red and looks like he's actually hurt now. 'She's sleeping. She has Annie with her. I was in there with her for a lullaby. I know what I'm doing. It's not like before.' Lakami must have noticed that Rabbit is nervous at this point but he doesn't relent the priciple. 'Daxta, if anything happened to you, she wouldn't have anybody in the world. The others would be here, but she would probably die of sadness before they even reached her.' It's very plain to see at this point that Rabbit is feeling ashamed and isn't at all interested in coming along any longer. So they say their departures and Attikus and Lakami set off northwards out the door for the tangled nest of Alifin Hallways. 

	Somewhere in the maddened grass of this place
	An empty jar adorned in images carved by a torch
	The jar is made of glass, but it is empty.
	Look through the jar and you will see the plain stretches farther
	There is long grass growing up to the horizon
	But grass doesn't grow here any longer, because it died

	Mourn the broken treetop, somewhere
	There is an answer to the possibility that
	You haven't considered Cat Tails
	and water lilies
	To be an answer you could give the nymph
	When it asks for something
	From a more distant
	avenue

		Tell me about the place called Alifin Hallways.
		It was made in the twisting virtues of the perpetual machine.
		It recieved its name from the person who first discovered that it connects to the Ablemann field.
		It connects to that field on the southwest.
		In this case, we take the road north.

Attikus and Lakami have reached a crossroads. Neither of them can remember for certain which way they are supposed to take and it dawns on them suddenly that their path may have been elsewhere all along. 'I knew we should have taken Serafi with us. She's the only one who ever comes out this far. I should have said so. Now we're going to be lost.' But Attikus retains his resolve 'It's not appropriate for her to be walking out this far by herself. We'll just have to wait until the moon shows itself again. We are just headed northwards.' But when will the moon be coming back? Neither of them can muster a guess, but without it there is nothing to do but get more lost, so they hollow out a crook in the roots of dead oak and watch the sky with growing nervosity. When they hear a branch cracking on the other side of the copse it sends a shiver up and down their spines and they shmuddle next to one another for warmth and safety. 'W, W, W,' ... 'what?' ... 'W, Where did that come from?'
	'What do you mean? There are noises out here. There are other noises too.' Lakami is whispering harshly but Attikus was referring to something else. It's the orlomaka that's been staring at them from across the trail for longer than they noticed it was there. It's eyes are moving gently in a timid vibration and the roots it stands between press into nevid makabrasions of terribral voicelessly. Attikus hickups. 'It's a little thing! It's not going to hurt you!' Lakami is mad now because he was actually scared for a moment. But the orlomaka on the other side of the trail is frozen stiff and not moving at all but just staring at them with dim red eyes. Maybe it's dead. Maybe it's rotting stiff. Lakami feels a little dizzy and he feels the dry branches stabbing at the underside of his leg as he slightly shifts. 

	Back at the house Spoon has taken some time off her busy schedule to meet the new tenant.
	'Barcelona! Abraham Lincoln! It steadies you in the shifting guise of morning light!' Wilbur isn't really sure what's going on but he's smiling anyways. Spoon's hands are bursting in different directions as her limbs tango to keep up. 'Tell me about this place you describe'
	'The Makabaroleram field, the one inside your head, where things converge and separate as they formulate ways to continue being. Doosh!' She comes tumbling towards to floor in a magnificent bow. Wilbur's smile has faded a little. 'This place you describe isn't really a place at all. It was understood for a long time to be the original state of the world as it exists. But over time people separated from the Field because existing in a physical sense is the only way to feel things like Love and Happiness.' Spoon smiles brilliantly. She's hiding something. 'Aha, little merelin, your upbringing in the formal states of Nazharam betrays your understanding in this concept. Consider for a moment that things will not simply be without a will to guide them and you will see that this is The World as it Exists Today.' Wilbur is looking a little flustered. 'You might disrespect my upbringing but you wouldn't be here if it weren't for the magicians at Nazharam. The devices of this world are a twisting symphony that can only be understood by the intentional study of the seeing eye. The Tower is a branching root. You dismiss it entirely.' Spoon just laughs and hobbles over to the cabinet to examine some fine jewelries. 'Tell me, Marus, is this the craftsmanship of Jokuin Golobar?' She is fingering a golden bracelet inset with violet gemstones delicately. Wilbur is feeling dismissive to her. 'You know your artisan. You'd do well to focus on the study.' Spoon chuckles 'I would recognize the handywork anywhere. I think we are going to get along just dandy, my Marus. If there's anything you need from me, don't hesitate to call.' Wilbur does hesitate a moment, but he has something to say. 'Actually, I was wondering if there might be a chance I could have my milk brought to me. If it's no trouble.' It's no trouble at all. 'Consider it made. You are avoiding leaving your room, aren't you? Are you starving yourself?' Wilbur's expression is unreadable. 'This is something you might not know about magicians. It's the reason we like to live in towers far away from the peoples' settlements. But we're really not keen on seeing others. The ability to change the world is dangerous, and somebody is bound to get hurt be it any other way.' Spoon is a little curious about that. 'I've always heard the Magician's Tower is a personal manifestation of the Mother's masterpiece'
	His voice is very soft '...There's that too.'
	'You say you aren't keen on seeing others, but I've had a lovely time talking with you here today. You are a radiant personality and I want to cast you in a play.' Wilbur is silent for a moment and Spoon is the one to speak next. 'I'll see you around, amiable little merelin.'

	I expecially hate her tone here. I can't believe she's letting a cat stay.
	I look for my beloved Alma to help bring my mind back to pure things.

A nocturne has played its due but the moon still hasn't shown itself. Lakami and even Attikus are starting to feel impatient so they strain their tired muscles to raise themselves apart from the tangled crook and when they do they notice a dull crimson light has begun to shine shyly through the parting soil under their weight. It's the moon, and it was right under their butts this whole time. 'Well I'll be! I could've told you to look there!' Attikus is getting a headache from the nausea and isn't fully alert to the situation but Lakami goes to pick it up. It must have fallen during last night's performance. 'I told her not to be so loud.' Now they've found what they were waiting for, the only problem is that it won't serve the purpose they need if it isn't hanging in the northern sky. So where did it come from, and where should they go now? The only choice is to bring it back to the operahouse, because Lakami thinks he remembers the way, and see if perhaps Clarius Faye can tell them what to do next.


I see Rabbit walking down the hall, blubbering blubbering, what's he saying? It doesn't matter. Nothing matters, the black branches wallpaper is stuck at a crossroads with itself I wander down the hall, the crooked woods hallway, the destination farther, weelping in the masticary bethlemakun but I can't seem to stop thinking about it. I won't be talking to him again for a little, but not because he hurt me or anything. I just can't seem to make up my mind, and I need a little more time to myself so I'm going to see the sun.

But when I reach that place I like to sit I am scartled to find that sun is nowhere to be found. My scarlet star has gone away, I wouldn't have been devestated to be without it but there's something about this moment that makes me want to start crying again. The best place to go now is the twisted hall where at least I can be warmer while I'm sitting in thought.
	When I'm there Attikus and Lakami pass through the hall. I have to follow them when I see what they have. 'You've stolen the sun from the sky itself. How wicked'
	'It's not like that. Just leave us alone already.'
	'I don't see why I should. This is my business when it's something so grandiose'
	'What would somebody want the sun for? It's such an awkward thing to be holding it in your hands.'
	'I sometimes think about what it would be like to hold it for myself'
Lakami is holding it to his chest protectively. I was just kidding but I want to know what's happening is the reason I'm following them. Down the curvature the gentle bend the going right part of the hall here, they're almost rushing so I have to be walking fast to keep up. 'Now what ever are you going towards to see Faumadeliann for? He'll just want it for himself. Magicians are so selfish.' They're just ignoring me now and that's expecially rude of them.

When they reach the mammoth gate they have gotten a little bit head of me and I have to walk to keep pace.
	'He's never going to let you in. You're just wasting your time'
	'Shut up already'
	I'm not bothering you. You're bothering me.
Lakami looks at Attikus and then pounds on the door as hard as he can, which isn't very hard compared to the size of the thing. A few moments pass and it's obvious that wasn't working. Attikus screams at the tops of his little little lungs
	'Hey! We've got to ask about something! It's important! Just let us in already!'
	'You're not even speaking from the bottom of the diaphragm. Troupemaster would be upright embarrassed'
	'Well, if you're so smart, you do it!'
	'HEY! OPEN UP!' Still no answer but it's not like I wasn't loud enough. It's time to turn around like we should have in the beginning.
	'You need to focus on getting the sun back in the sky and stop thinking about these silly old magicians.'
	'Don't be an idiot. That's the only thing we're here for.'
But I could tell you again that there's no getting through the mammoth door of the wizard's chamber, and you wouldn't even listen to me because you don't care. But it's at that moment when something awful happens, because now the cat is here.
	'Hey, I haven't seen you since you came here. Man, I thought you died. What's the big deal?'
	'...I wanted to see the resident magician. Naria said I could find him here. But I see he isn't looking to be bothered. You really shouldn't be so loud. Even though he can't hear you, you're just being awful'
	'What's the big deal anyways? He's being such a stickler.'
	'What are you even doing here?'
	'The same as you I guess. But we have real business with the big man'
Wilbur clicks his tongue
	'Forget it'
And he begins walking away. But suddenly Attikus has an idea.
	'Hey! Can you help us with something?'
	'What do you even want with me? I thought I was invisible.'
Attikus hesitates for a moment and seems afraid that he's somehow got Wilbur's feelings hurt even though he really shouldn't be.
	'We, we found this in Alif Hallways' Wilbur's eyes go wide when he sees what Attikus is referring to is in Lakami's hands.
	'It's the Korobor. You stole the sun from the sky itself. That's so incredibly messed up.'
	'We didn't steal it, already! It fell by itself, already! Why is everybody so keen of blaming me for something I don't even know how I would do that?'
	'It fell? What do you mean? Well, that's not right.'
	'Yeah! I don't think so either. That's why I want your help to help us get it back up there.'
Wilbur is quiet and everybody is silent for a moment.
	'Yeah, okay, I guess I can help you with that.'

	The branches blemish bubble black before belching bogfires
	The simmering soup sacrifice selflessly such sangrid sanctimonium
	The gold grinding gear gallow gastrous gobble guarding greens
	The flowering fickly floating fast farther for fellow family
	The better better betting balloway

Rabbit sees them pass him on their way rushing towards the entrance, and this time he doesn't hesitate to tag along. Dime comes too, who he had been talking to. Nobody questions who should be there or not and the party makes its way with a determination and a powerful, awesome, cool grit. They pass the entrance, and they make their way back into the Alifin hallways knowing that now there is no chance of getting lost, because Daisy is here now and even Wilbur is a magician who can help them find the way.

In the outer mud room called Loradale Alabaster keeps her velvet boots all traced in mud from an exhibition. Laurel roots and thistle bulbs are spangling the ceramic tiled floor in an array of purple lavender siamese tulip buds, like before the clock is mattered traced in lines of red ink stolen from an outwards makabrasions of the inner self, towards concepts of water wet dirt drying cracking in the fronter foyer. Terrible contemplations, foremost maxabrasions, hield now hitherforth my sister in the oberdin, texan verifible malerhau power wash. Tuck my cotton vest somewhere closer to the door, tuck my hairy chest as we move forevermore, tell my very best until we've touched the hither's fore. Do not question, do not become, but the scent of mud is strong, do not overcome, be innermost having, tell me your innermost feelings, question my wont be more amicable, smelling the reek of my dirty hair. Your feet against these ceramic tiles, the floor that holds you from your guiles, tell me now I've not your wile to cressed the waterbound rings, and smile. Time is making her come here to take her boots away, time betrays her instinct here to be another way. Running, running, my clothes are getting wet.
	Ahlly is playing billiards in the recreational chamber. Gowen comes in and starts talking to the keeper about various assortments of bakvahalus and moharadarus, but when Lily arrives is when things get really interesting. He looks at the orange box on the countertop and smiles slightly. His smile is always slight, so if You aren't paying attention you could miss it entirely. It makes him difficult to be around, but for some people it's exactly the thing that makes him such a spectacle. He walks over there, and he has a seat next to little Gowen of the maidens' party. They talk about moharadarus and lavanamakus, and when the rock and roll ballad has played its course they both go into the back room where they eat cheese and drink rat blood. But what they don't notice is that the sun is missing from the sky, and it has been for a long time. Because what the departed party does not realize in their hurry to set things proper is that the Alifin Hallways has a dark secret, and they will be returning to the opera house at a much later date than they anticipated. But such is the passage of time, they will not realize it until it is time for them to depart this world entirely.

	My death you do not anticipate, because when you are living in this place called the world as it exists today you could never know such things as they are to happen or will have been unseen, those things we do not remember, that vanish, and cease to have ever been, making everything we know a meek suggestion of a thing that is or was going to have been, or could have never been at all. I don't tell you this, because there is no purpose entertaining the concept of livelihood in a world where being alive is the equivalent of not understanding what it means to love or to hate, instead I walk with you for a long time not telling you what I think is going to happen next. Next I think next. Do not get trapped in the harrowing repetition or the possibility that what you are experiencing is not truly real.
	At the top of a magician's tower, there is a pedestal called the Vokorobor that is used by magicians in the altercation of their place in the celestial tapestry. When a magician uses the pedestal, they must make a sacrifice of one memory that is significant enough to become a star itself, or else lose everything they ever knew. Wilbur thinks that if they take the moon up to the top of the magician's tower that is standing between the Alifin Hallways and the crystal stream and they place it on the Vokorobor it will be returned to its natural place in the celestial tapestry. But what he doesn't anticipate is that an additional sacrifice will have to be made for the arrangement of the new stars.
	Daisy is singing about sunflowers and candy apples and everybody is listening this time although her voice will occasionally crack and the lyrics don't entirely line up. On the horizon as it comes into view in a clearing are lines of deep lavender, fiery red, deep, deep aqua blue, and a slight pine green. There are okabaras and magpies singing in the serene silhouettes of twisted trees. The trees around them are standing steadfast and stalwart against the purple air and the smell of rain hangs like a faded mist over the clearing. Lakami feels a strange foreboding leave him as he forgets why he thought something bad was going to happen soon. Dime feels the same way but Attikus and Rabbit never had much doubt in the first place and were mostly just there out of a sense of duty if not curiosity and what they're feeling now is a sensation similar to putting your toes in a cold bath of water when you're naked on a hot steaming time signature inside a cradle of lava rock. As your toes sink deeper you don't think to check and your entire body slips into a comatose wondering at the inquisitions of men who don't think to ask about cherry blossoms. She sings about cherry blossoms and bergundy wine. She sings like her heart is apart from the world as it exists to cause harm and she sings without question or doubt about the wavering escargo and the tall grass of allister's field. When they reach the top of the hill they can see the tower in the distance. Daisy smiles. 'I told you not to worry. I've been out here before.' Attikus wants to embrace her and most of the others feel the same way until they notice Wilbur is still walking forward and never actually stopped. They hurry down the hill. When they reach the foot of the tower, it looms above them with an ominous wonder. The sticks scaffolding around it culminates at the peak in a corner of blackened stone. They look up at it in awe. 'Well how are we going to get inside?' Lakami is the first to notice there doesn't seem to be any entrance. 'You don't go inside. It isn't a house or anything.' The others look at Wilbur a little confused. And he begins to levitate himself, he says 'Here, now, this is how you reach the top. And it's not a place for ordinary people.' And he's right, in a sense, perhaps there was a time this place was sacred grounds for the sole property of the magician it served, but a look around reveals a patterned history not so clearly defined. There are ablahath, gott, lamany built around the place for anybody looking for somewhere to be themselves. Wilbur takes the fading moon from Lakami and floats upwards without moving a bone in his body.
	Don't you know why the sun shines? It's shining with the passion and the beauty of every living thing. That's the gift you gave to this world. Some people live in the future, and some people live in the past. But I will always be here living with you, because I love you. That's the gift you gave to me. So whatever happens next, please believe me when I tell you I will always be at your side.

---
On the topic of creation, and destruction

The first artisans were the magicians
There was a time that everybody had that power of Magic, and in fact this was the intended shape of the world.

The individual is made up of a conflicting ideal that sets it apart. Original concepts were concieved in a conflict of scopes.

The woman with fishes on her hands, she gets her energy from the sun. The energy to lift curses. The fishes eat for her.
The fact is that she's afflicted with her own curse. The fishes need to be in the water to live, but land dwelling creatures don't have anything to breath underwater, without the gills.
Her curse is that she's already dead, and is living on time borrowed from the people she cures.


An old magician named Laramy, she's coming to the seaside.
As the boat rocks gently in the wavefront fog
The orange reddish glow of paperglass lanterns begins to fade into view.
Fades into sight gradually.
Waves cressed balloway
As she arrives at the dock, drifting slowly between the mossy piers
Large wood posts erect in the water, standing and supporting platforms
In the air above, structures of yellow light fade into view,
They fade out of view just as nothingnessly.
Now stand, Laramy, see the betting tide.
Now stand, Laramy, feeling ocean waves...
Now stand, and underside...

How I waver in the betting glass lanterns of an ebbing tide, I wish for starfish and the crawdaddies.
My name is marked here in the sand
In patterns of stained glass sea pebbles
My name spelt in letters of a nazarith balloway, sending cressents back towards the shore.

I wish for you to be here with me
Laramy swoons before the worn down wooden steps covered in messy sand and seastuffs
The tide will be here in the afternoon, if the moon is still waving its barrowing masterwork.
The seafront wharf is standing mostly on the sea supported by the seabed against the great ivy cliffs in the faded distant mist
Laramy swoons

Now stand, Laramy, before the shrouded vine
Now stand, Laramy, your hand in crusted leather
Now stand, Laramy, your boot on the sand, aberath, makadamia, herald my own name

I walk between the crooked wooden ballathes of a marketplace in rest, my mind not wondering for the gift shop cottons and the little bells.
This place is called
And this place is called a mess of wooden natural combing the waterside motherland of the bog in distant east.

Structures of yellow light undulate beneath my airing thought for mindfulness

The better better betting balloway, medling
Melding waveforms in the ocean pier, stuck in wondering wooden structures upon the ocean grounds
Wooden structures melding together with the light
The night it self is chased away by the faded passage of the bygone days.
I'm wondering myself for the twisted passage of a marketplace square,
I'm moving myself chased from the seabed in pursuing of passionate comforting words for a greener abalith.

This place is called
Spelt in letters of a nazarith balloway, sending peasants flocking further towards the market square.
You will remember my name


Booming voice as deep as the ocean surrounds from below the dock
There are children playing there
Surrounding in my namefulness
Surrounding deep as the waves, deep as the crawdaddies, deeper
The Octopus

Shapeless flesh, mammoth
Welcomes

The whale? The

Meredith

Combing the oceanside seaweed and the wreckage, tidal passage of day in the middern mast, he sits there larger than the barren
The baron of Johl, they call him
He is larger than the oceanside shoreline
He is beached before the afternoon
Starting in the evening
What on earth, don't you have places to be?
I'm backwards, he was beached there in the afternoon
He leaves in the evening
It's only a few hours, when he's sitting on the shore.

I have been here in the morning and the day past itself bywards in the ebb and flow
The ebbing of the clock as it inched waywards unto the underseenwatch
Taking me into the future, or slinging us back to the yesterhour.
Or taking us back?

What on earth, don't you have places to be?

I wander myself back to the billiards
I
I
I don't know where the ocean
I don't know why
I don't know where the ocean goes when it passes the horizon
Could you take me there, Meredith?

His booming voice, playing with the children
I hear a voice disappear


Midnight
Can't sleep
I don't want to sleep
I don't remember the
Broken train of thought
I abandoned nearer the
seashore

Shellfish
Error of ways
Becoming
the ways we become
But what are we becoming
when the stars are gone?

Laxative
Questioning thought
Harbouring guiltiness
In the abstract ways we become
More like the parting clouds
More like the rutted trail
Passive
Passivity
Passively
Passivility
Passiveness
Passivenessly
Passivenesslility
Passivilitynesslessly
Passivassivitynesslessly
Passivingmassivingwassiving
Passinglynesslessly
Passingness
Passionately

Passion
The error of my ways


In the morning I go to the cafe where I eat pancakes and chicken broth with a side of velvet
My favourite part is the antique furnitures kept in a glass barroway massive like my id is
Stucking the antique furnitures closer to the center of my chest
My antique furniture chest where the old socks are kept when they reek of cat piss
My chest is reeking of cat piss
O, woe? Woe is me, my antique furniture chest

Laramy, do you understand
The wooden structures
The lucent beams
The aqua platforms
The sand castles
The lucent barroways and ballathes
The ivy knobs
The rotting structures
The luminaire

The sunset
Able to become, at the moment of setting, I watch the whale drift lifelessly
He's drifting away, the setting sun
I grab it with my fingers, but it isn't there


The playhouse at the outskirts of town is where the cliffside ends and the crescendoing abalith.
Laramy is walking along the dirt rocks path, feeling the warmth of afternoon
Afternoon sunshine.

Presnting Pinwheels in the Mastications
This play was writtin by Marus Balothyomi
And is presented to you by the performing troupe of the children of Homer
Explosiongs of confetti in the mastibooth
Heralding the greatest scene of the ever happening verible
Touch the starlight of a crimson nocturne
Touch! Thouch! Herrald! Therforrre! Verithii! Mallistaffinllaaaaaaaaaaamus!
Ho! Ho! HOLy wo

The dancer's elegy is played in verse
A string quartet describes the adventure of a young man searching for his younger sister
While the trumpeter is decorating the fields of an open mastication
The percussionists sing
Poetry of a bygone tongue, sung in the name of a nazarith balloway

Veritible mastications, touching the skin of my velvet cheek
Sheathing the blade of a naxarith barrolay
Touch! Touch! Herrald! Therforrree! Verrithii! Lamahamussss!
Vitherfore vitherfore, claim in thy name
Vastermath webleforth, bericlad hane
Youth of a lavinorth in the gladder sun gains of a garomann lain
Furthermore, the worm
Henry, yellow, wet, like like a...
It's a noodle, a worm
Veritible mastications

Laramy swoons
The exifation
Love of a bygone grasp
reaching further than my hand will clasp
My hand will clasp your throat
Singing in the words of a foreign language
The words of
And the words of a natural hillcressed foulmouthed bottom feeder
Touch my nose
Touch my loins
Touch my breath away
And take me
And take me
And take me
And take me
And take me
And take me

Touching my heart
Tearing my bloodstream


I had visions of this place before I came here.
On the distant shore, Meredith lays like a dying whale.
Would you appreciate if I told you I feel the same way?
Recently, I have not felt myself.
Not quite myself, and I tell you this.
In the evening, I return to the sea, where I am tossed around like a dying whale.
Tossed by the waves, tossed by the
Better better betting balloway

His voice is booming like the bottom of the ocean floor

Heil the setting sun
My love of the sea is beyond measure


On the outskirts of town Larry is standing on the outskirts of town
He wields a sword made out of plastic and his hat is a yellow traffic cone
My numbbons on the seashore in the distant plastic balloway
He's waiting for the arrival of the good witch Laramy.

H Hello mm my name is L L L L L L Larry mm mmmm mm
.

He is
And he is laughing in a natural mountaintops seagoat astrewn
I can feel the arrival of the witch

Barry swoons in the mastification'
His name carved in wooden slippers
Feet on a natural grass green patch.

We enter the gathering commune
The others are gaxing in odd wonder at the whale

My meredith.

Joshua, we gather in your honour, o mighty lord of the sea
Barry is wearing a cardboard crown. He croons in the mastifi
Harry raises a wooden trumpet and blows to no applause
Barry coughs into his fingernails
And Larry and I arrive at the place.

Joshua, his voice as deep as the wavering plateau
Very well. Very well. Amen. Amen.

Meredith is begging to be fed. Give him what he wants and he will be on his way.

And let him be on his way.

Barry is waving his turquoise flag

Joshua, give us news of the eastern shore
It's marked in the name of a gallows marrow battling
And its name is a plastic narrow eventide wondering

Joshua, tell us what it is you so desire
To be thrown in the acrid tumbling waveforms
Thrown in a constant muttering way

Joshua, give us news of the eastern shore
To be thrown in the constant
Acrid tumbling waveforms

Meredith hungers

Barry looks at me with love in his eyes

Joshua, tell us what it is you so desire
He needs a sacrifice
We have nothing to give

Joshua, tell us what it is you so desire
We need to feed him
We'll feed him the witch Laramy

Harry grabs my arm and takes me towards the beast's open mouth that smells like sweating

Not so fast! You only need to let him go!

If this is what he needs, I offer myself

No! He can't take her, she is my beloved!

We look at each other, prepared to feed myself to Meredith

Larry objects

It isn't moral! You can't make this sacrifice!

Barry says

So be it! We will not sacrifice the lady! And he declares his verdict

Joshua, swallow this man,
Let him fall in there but do not digest him, instead let him sit in the large fibrous pool of your stomach
And he'll sit in the battery fermenting acid
And spit him back up, and swallow him again, and spit him up,
until the acid has burned away his skin and his eyes and left him a deformed mass
And then you can go

I object. No! It should be me!

Harry plays a particular note on his wooden trumpet and I am shrunken down so they can't hear me any longer

Larry says No! This isn't right! But in an instant he has fallen and he slides down the esophagus

...

Yes, Joshua, let him sit in there

...

Yes, a little longer,

...

Now, spit him back up

But nothing happens

Ah, that did hit the spot. I cannot seem to regurgitate it











































The warm touch of the sunshine reaches me from the fringes of a laurel curtain hanging delicately fraught at far side of the avel hide structure. A triangular flap closed to the outside heat dowses the interior mostly in a warm velvet darkness so that my eyes waver confusedly picking up hints of the lines of sunshine fading in shiftily from the frills. My body is held on the joromin balta that closes in around me being steady and accepting. The rectangular storage table at the side of my avel horn structured kilith has an outcropping at its uppermost portion that extends in either direction serving stalwart for the variable goromann purposes. The narivald growing in a marith sits atop the patterned grey structure, its leaves extending out into the innermost portion of the gott. The floor is powdery and unclean as the outside but covered in an assortment of coloured nava hide and malkinboht. There are minor trophies assorting the interior avel hide, baltameaus and harrises and little joromin strips decorated in heads of a karn. On the ground there is a small storage unit with a variety of soft fittings, avel hide and laurel sitting atop it, some even decorated in a colour of harisedd karns. The bottom portion of the avel hide frays outwards shiftingly before it meets the ground, carving little impressions in the wavering darkness in the ebb and flow of its patterned surface, small shades of grey ballow in a garrison forg masking little dark fronds on the other side sorted in an array of slight confusion casting their unseeable shadows on the interior of the avel hide gott. The oasis water at the other side of the patch of fronds is to be swaying slightly as it catches the light of the sun on its ever wavering surface, and perhaps the little grey man who was resting on the far side of the water with a scarlet hide carpet will still be trying to catch the darting paromats and lovicals from the ever shifting ecosystem underneath the water. He came from northern Nazarith, the hill country situated between the mining canyons and a great overpass in the east. There is news that the lord at Nazarith has fallen ill and commerce has stuttered in the light of the fact. If the lord isn't capable of carrying out his responsibilities, the right should fall to somebody who is currently able to meet the need, but when I suggested this idea I was quickly dismissed and harshly scolded. The structure of northern social order is not supposed to make sense to those of us who were not raised to be a part of it. The structure itself is remarkably naive, as it considers the entire work to be a family unit which is utterly baffling. But considering this, the fact that there was nobody to take the lord's place is actually a contradiction. Meet an individual from the north and you will get the impression that they are trustworthy and strong, but see the civilization as a whole and it is not hard to see why they so falter as they do. The faltering shadows cast by large structures outside the gott begin to move swayingly with a tendency towards the triangular entrance.
	The floor is just the powder of the outside world, the chest and the table and my kilith press into it slightly. Adorning it but out of my sight are the carpets made of hide and laurel, their patterns are a south Ariny tradition. Blue waves and dark red structure of shape. Tradition that worships the ever wavering shoreline. Vile shoreline. The wooden framework of the gott stands straight towards the ceiling where it begins to round and meet at the center of the avel hide bulb. Hints of the pink sky wriggle through the seams created at the point where the avel hide meets itself falteringly. Faltering viscousness of a sea mammoth that eats people. The shadows of the fronds shift back, the larger shapes also faltering. Moving in a falter, as they return back and forth again. Less fore ward now, they sway twisting in the breath of morning. The morning's mouth is pink that blows the wavering shadows back and sucks them forth again, partly in their own devices, they tend towards their natural standing. The sounds of gently caressing the avel hide gott and the outside powders and waters and the fronds is rising to part my ears from the morning's breath. Parting my ears a gentle swaying, the constant movement of the outwards devices and the hidden ways apart the inside of a narivald bud. Suspended upon its roots, great leaves out in the air, suspended on roots of an arm in constant waiting. The air static inside the gott, sometimes it is interrupted by a slight shifting motion from behind the shuttered curtain or behind the triangular entrance, and the leaf will falter shiftingly on its static root.
	The shuttered curtain twists falteringly. It's gently guided by the slight movements in the air that penetrate from outside. The brightness and the warmth of the rays of sunshine beams onto the ground and a rectangular scarlet avel hide with golden fringes and an adornment of hunting jilco beast painted with the filaments of a torquoise afald. At home there's an afald growing on the crossroads at becklam point whose seeds are harvested by the old woman living in a cottage at the height of the outcropped cliff face. She brings us pastes and beverages in the heat of the warm season.
	I hear shifting of sands outside the entrance of the gott. Somebody is moving out there. I hear two shuttered coughs. The little grey man is packing up his things. I hear something shifting. Impact on the sand. Something heavy lands on the ground. He makes a little grunting noise. Now there is silence for a moment. The window has gotten still and the gott is in waiting. The narivald plant on my night table is shifting in the furtid soil that holds it in the thick ceramic painted shifting clouds pot structure. It is a ceramic shifting clouds marith pot. Shifting blue bulb structured marith. Shifting brush strokes painted clay hard marith pot. Twisted windows structured pot. Twisted waves cloud sky dark violet blue. I hear footsteps outside the gott. I hear footsteps getting quieter outside. I hear them disappear. Now he has gone away. I close my eyes.




Bunny wakes up feeling sick to her tummy and very drowsy. Her legs are fuzzy and her mouth is dry, it is still very dark and everybody else is still asleep. She's scared and wants to throw up when she finds that Annie is not under the covers with her. She shifts and moves a bit and feeling very nauseous picks herself up out of bed. She calls out weakly
	'Annie?'
But there is not any response, from the cavernous darkness of the wooden structured monolith. She hickkups and begins onto her knees and feeling around on the cold stone floor. Anuis doesn't like to move on her own because it gets her cotton joints all stuffed up and bunchy, she can't possibly have gotten far away from Bunny's hug.

Bunny combs the bed with her paws. Her insides are getting folded up onto themselves and she starts to whimper in the darkness. She hickkups. She's shaking in the cold and starts rubbing her little arms with the beds of her paws as she cries silently. Her nose is running and every once in a while she sniffs
	'Sniff, ...sniff'
She thought about waking Rabbit but he's never happy at that. She feels so very alone in the abyssal midnight pitch of darkness and heavy silence. She walks out into the hall but suddenly feels a morbid and very daunting sense of coldness and foreboding. For just a moment she forgets what she's looking for as the absolute coldness of the world stings her heart. She turns and darts back towards her bedside like a frightened little hare.
	'A... Annie?'
Her voice has begun to break and she feels very ashamed when she hears Rabbit shifting on his mattress. She is alone in silence for another moment before she begins to notice a noise that is coming from underneath her bed. It sounds almost like chewing
	'munch, ... munch;'
to her. She slowly gets onto her knees and looks underneath the bed but she can't see anything in the midnight underneath darkness. She crawls under the bed, brushing past something fuzzy and other objects she doesn't recognize. She thinks she can feel the floor tilt downwards and the way becoming tighter but she isn't quite sure as it seems to loosen up around her every once in a while. She crawls further into that place. Crawling, crawling, on her hands and knees, her tiny body slowly smothered by the dark as that noise gets louder in the distance. She can hear now that it's a shifting of bodies, with a steady stream of dialog playing out underneath it.
	'mumble... mubl, mumble mum.'
She breathes in as her heart slowly flutters like a stray bird. Suddenly she crawls past an overpass and falls onto her back losing her composure in an instant. The talking has gotten loud now and she can see green and blue light glowing dimly from just around the corner. She parts the distance shifting shyly on her fuzzy legs feeling very ashamed. Then when she reaches that corner she pokes her little head out past the corner and sees a grand procession in its midst.
	The court is arranged in little wooden boxes with a foremost character of judicial quality sitting at a throne that is decorated in little paper animals and glass lights, pieces of string arranged in an elaborate tapestry at the individual's backside where nobody can see it. There are other seatings too aside the high seat where cotton bears and birds and an especially tired dog are sitting in their authority overlooking the court. It extends in either side rounding to engulf the floor in intricate designs of wooden carving and cardboard ornaments painted to look like the fruits of a bygone ancestry. At the center of attention Annie floats like a ghost in attendance. Bunny shuffles up running towards her and stops at her backside when she reaches the foremost attention.
	The character in the throne talks without moving its mouth. 'Goh Mo Loruann, you have betrayed trust of our company as invested in you, having to let this matter go unattended. Hivver leth you plea' Annie is looking grim in the black button charcoal eyes looking towards the floor and not paying Bunny any mind. It's uncharacteristic for the person in whome Bunny had entrusted her own safety and indeed everyone believed it was Annie's first priority. She looks small now, her felted cape doesn't reach the floor and her little ears are made of purple hydlin flowers. There is muttering amongst those gathered in this place as Bunny looks ashamedly towards the floor. Anuis speaks. 'Milord Gothram, it was not in my judgment for this thing to have happened on the night of Levinstide. You understand I was preoccupied protecting the daughter of madam Lerowits.' Bunny bursts out 'It wasn't her fault, can't you see that?!' The court falls silent for two moments before the Lord Gothram addresses the new attendee. 'And what matter have you in this occupance, ferold of lee?' Bunny feels a new flush of embarrassment especially because she's not especially sure what the character just said or what it means. 'Annie, I need you back. I can't I can't sleep.' The poor girl doesn't understand what's going on, she's barely past her yinsyear. Annie is completely motionless. 'You should not have come to this place. Go back to sleep.'
	Bunny hicckups and sniffs in the mammoth chamber. She looks around hazily at the dead-eyed audience composed of nobility and the brave. They all have their attention trained on her Annie and she feels a nervous dizziness as heat overtakes her body. Lord Gothram says in a tone of dry skeleton voiceless depth, 'The subject of our gathering here shifts everlly steady away from the concept at hand, however her ladyship of the Goh Mo Loruann arrives in such a fashion of the maktavius nocturne. So be it, we train now our focus on the matter of the Lerowits heritage. Loruann, address the topic at hand' Annie whimpers and twitches. 'Milady, please leave this place at once.' She talks in a low and shameful whisper. Lord Gothram addresses. 'Goh Loruann, you will obey the judgment of the court of rain.' Annie speaks 'Her ladyship is confused. I cannot address this matter without violating my oath.' Lord Gothram addresses in a low voice 'Goh Morel Loruann, in light of these events your oath is hereby lifted.' Annie is silent and motionless. Bunny is crying because she doesn't understand the harshness in her voice. Annie's voice is flat as she says, 'In that case, I will resign from the sisterhood and forfeit my Magic.' There is a bustling of murmurs amongst the gathered crowd and a character of the gnorsis party blows a horn, silencing the voices. Lord Gothram takes a moment of consideration. Bunny vomits her supper all over the floor and the murmuring among the crowd grows louder.

Bunny begins to feel dizzy as the smell of vomit penetrates her lungs. And Annie who was in front of her is shaking in something between anger and despair. And Anuis whimpers and whines as the dirty milk sinks into the fabric of her skin
	And the procession of feets stamps foldways atop the benches and the boeulaverds. The procession of stampering voices winding northly mastihand cation merrylik havinorth narivald blooming purple amplesands. And the anuis Whimpers and Whines

Bunny begins to feel dissy as the owrld of thorman count mariland bears witness to the yinsworth mablefor captaining leiutenant bald. Her legs cripple nad cimple and her weight everforing and her body shrink plastik

And her loved Anuis cries as she dies another haffold year in the make believe moriflowaer of the western horizon glowing pink and velvet in the orange juice lane

Bunny begins to feel dizzy as her green felted dress begins to become looser in the knots of its knitting and it expands around her waistline causing her to grow and then shrink like the ever wavering shoreline of a broken daydream and the Anuis who she loved whimpers and cries in the echoes of her mind

As the character of the gnorsis party drags her away swimming, Bunny sees Anuis sitting on the floor motionless and soiled wet. The life that she had known her for having left this world, Annie no longer whimpers for her ladyship's safety and she no longer pleads out of love or embarrassment nor will she ever comfort the little girl again. All of this you do not see in the stuffed doll that lingers on the crocked floorboards. And then she passes out.


	The world was engulfed in a great chaos
	On this day three hundred years ago
	And the Tower of Nohr, and the History of Man
	The history of things that live
	Or particularly the history of dreams
	And all of history was engulfed in a great inferno
	It spread like a wildfire, shades of malice
	Shades of fear and shades of red
	The broken frame wore crimson in the evermore of night
	The charred bent and battered frame standing crimson
	In the evermore of night
	The History of Nohr, and the History of all things that ever were
	And the things that are standing atop it
	Lost in the scattered ashes of a passion
	The passion of history and the Passion of Man
	The Passion of People and the passion of earth
	And on this day three hundred years ago
	It spread like a wild fire and engulfed
	The history of the world
	
	And what is left in the aftermath of a cataclysm
	People and the earth gather their thoughts each
	And the things that are left, the things that are broken and hurt
	They are all the things we ever owned

		
		In the beginning, there was Constance
		There was Presence, and there was Nothing
		This is the natural state of the world as we know it
		But Constance created Time as a natural extension of itself
		And he named her Nohr

		Nohr was not the first magician nor would she be the last
		But it was this relationship that gave form to the magic of the eternal field
		It was given the form of a dream, the dream of Constance and his intangible Other
		And there was Presence, and there was momentum
		This is not the natural state of the world, nor is it the shape we chose for ourselves
		The dream plays itself forward, the passage of time an unerring constance
		The children of Nohr, who were her children only in that she gave them form
		The dream grows infinite as ideas conjugate and mutate
		And the children of Nohr learn closeness is a concept of momentum
		It is a concept of Time, a concept of otherness
		So they meet and they touch and they each of them contribute
		In their so understanding of the World as it Exists
		And as the Tower becomes taller it also expands
		Is it a tree?
		Is it a network?
		What is the shape of the people's Tower
		But a concept of understanding their relationship to the Tower of Nohr
		And it is their understanding that binds them
		And it is their understanding that separates them from Presence, and it separates them from momentum
		
		And the world is a child of their understanding
		So it belongs to them, although in truth it birthed them

		And on this day three hundred years ago
		The world was engulfed in a great crossroads
		And in the end, there is Nothing
		And in the end, there is Everything
		And in the end, there was always Presence, and there was always momentum


The more time passes between that time and myself the more I consider it a trauma. It wasn't at the time, but as the days add up and the little cuts fester it becomes a distinct aching that can be only associated with that particular place in that particular time of my life. It was there all along, always caressing the surface from underneath, but until it passes into memory the thing is no identity, it is simply a part of the world as it exists. This is the way in which our death defines us, because the world does not exist in the present, it exists in the past. The whole world is a history, facing its infinity on one side and on the other, the unknown. The world today, the here and the now, the present, has nothing to do with reality. It is simply the place where everything and nothing exist at once, putting things into perspective before they move onto one or the other, into absence or into presence. So it is in this way that our death defines us, because it is the point we move into absence, and the second time we truly exist in the present.

Now I have given you everything you need to understand what happens next, but keep in mind that the narrator cannot be trusted as he is simply illustrating a translation of the dream and a translation is by its nature imperfect.


An orange juice candy painted lemon lime hangs in the cobwebbed wall face of a dusty juice train station. The trains that used to run there errands pass the platforms on their way towards an oval sunset at the border line. Past the western horizon, glowing lime green and neon yellow in the aching thumb of a master glass woken on the passing waystation of a gering lane. The way westwards lies in the orange nevid corpse of a maggot rotted cotton ball painted in the colours of green and a crimson blood orange. The lemon lime cliff face pointing northwards where the angel star falls at the foremost gobble. The sand rots westwards. In the East there is a place called a normal captain carrying bloody footsteps of a broken hearted wolf puppy whose name is carved in the wooden surface of a trains station necklace kept safe beneath the glass of a decoration looking case. That person left an orange box hanging in the cob webbed wall face of the dusty corridor station here facing south, where worms eat lazers and the ocean is an orange juice named mellowness saving for time that wicked hearts will open the question for naming myself bitter cotton orange peel skin in the bitter ways we name.


What does it mean to cry blood? My eyes crusted over in the flesh surface of placenta my thigh my forearm reaching forwards into the musky corridor where a scent hangs named velvet. Velvet. Velvet. Velvet. Velvet sofa cushioned velvet name velvet cake orange toppings sliced lime cup sugar which whereforth thereby mellowed fast slow fat skinny large angular named verus. Crimson waveforms in the ever wavering shore line crimson waveforms in the ever tinkling war front line of an angular fish facing backwards towards the places we become more like the unlikely likeness of an aging queen whose name is carved in a wooden surface called the framework of this house is built on the burial of your dearest ancestors who gave me the permission to call them losers.


Losers! They're Losers! They die, forgotten, buried, nevermore, unbecoming, having lost, having lost what they are, what they become, what they remember, what they once had won, what they thought, what they didn't, what they ate, what they defecated, what they defaced, what they achieved, what they lost, what they were, what they are going to be, what they thought of the moon and the sun, what they saw in the wavering grass of a garden of purple flowers, what they didn't see, what they saw in the wavering shore line wavering shore line wavering face line wavering fore head wavering your head wavering my head wavering we're head wavering we're head wavering we're heade wavering we're headed towards that place called Nasaris, what they were headed, what do they think when I say the term nasaris, do they think of me? do they think of flowers? do they think of the sun and the moon or do they think of defecating on the grave of the do they think


Tell me I am structure. Tell me I am created. Tell me I am touchable and that when you touch me it makes you feel good. Tell me I have form and that my form has structure. Tell me I am created by the rubbing of the sea, tell me I was created beneath the water, tell me I am fish or I am coral or I am seaweed. Tell me that when you touch me, you are touching seaweed, and the seaweed is touching you on every part of your body and inside of your body and inside of your eye sockets and inside of your ear canals and inside your veins and that lake of blood and inside your lungs and inside your anus and underneath the surface of your fingers and underneath the surface of your skin and underneath that mask of yours and underneath your body sinking into the abyss blackness surrounding swallowing me down below your form, as it lies shifting on the surface of the water, the life drained from that corpse of yours. That life mine, that radiance mine, soaking in the blackness. I love you. I love you. I want you. I need you. I feel you, you are not there, but I feel you, touching my

skin is stretched across this frame of mine making lava look naked in the blackened form of an amazing name

You are amazing. You make me feel amazing. I want you. I don't need you, but I want you. I want you so much it's going to make me feel sad if you don't come


If you are not Present. If you are not there. If you are not beside me, or you do not care. I tell you that I love you, but it gets lost somewhere in there. Somewhere in that expanse of things that happen, that are, that aren't, that were, that will be, that won't be, that nobody has thought of yet. And that is every moment, something that did not exist in the past and has never existed before. That is why I need you, because you don't exist in the past. Because you exist in my heart. Because you exist in that lake of blood. Because you exist in my blood lake. Because you circulate the rivers of my body and my soul. Because you touch me on the inside.


Nevid makabrasions of the innermost self is the concept I describe with words called orange, yellow, red, candy lane. Purple, grape candy, orange juice candy, lemon lime candy, apple candy, apple switzer, apple cinnamon. Vanilla candy, chocolate bar, milk chocolate, chocolate milk. Chocolate with wafers, chocolate with nuts. Chocolate with shafers and chocolate with butts. Green candy, blue candy, yellow candy, lime. Furthermore, the sugar.


What the fuck do you know about me? It's because I'm a husk. It's because I'm nothing. It's because I have no feelings, It's because I have no knowledge, I'm just a fucking object.

This is a mask? This is my mask, like my other masks, every time I have a thought, here is another mask. For every person that knows me, they see one mask, only one, and it is one I did not create, and it is one I do not control, and it is one I do not understand. These masks, then, exist for me. Each mask facing inwards, I am myself, I am an array, I am a matrix, I am a discord, and when I am so, I am only an object. And when I take off the mask that you are familiar with, I am nothing. And when I take off that mask, I am nothing. When I elude you, I am nothing. When I elude such utterly arbitrary law? I am nothing. I am nothing to you. I am nothing. I am nothing. Can you deny it? Am I nothing, or am I a fucking anomaly? Am I just a fucking anomaly? Tell me I am. You know it's true. You know I'm just an oddity, I'm just a locked door, I'm just an empty shell. I'm just a locked door with nothing behind it. I am nothing. Just a fucking anomaly. And that's because I wanted to be more than just another motherfucking stupid fucking bullshit piece of shit paper mask. One mask. I am one mask to you. You understand me, but I am still just a mask to you. Because you don't occupy me. Because you and I don't exist in the same mind. Because you can't be me living, you never know my self, the part of me that is existing in the world. The part of me that is everything. So you know not everything, you know nothing, you will always know nothing of me, and this is why everybody dies alone. This is why death is an ultimatum, you think you remember me but I am not anywhere, I am not in the future, I am not in the past, I am in your head. I am just a closed door, with nothing behind it, you can find the key, you can turn the lock, look behind it, look behind that door, you can look behind it now, but there's nothing there. There's really nothing. It's not anywhere anymore, it's not in me, it was never in you, it's not anywhere in the world and it isn't in fiction and it's not in your imagination or the monolog of your soul, it's gone, it isn't and it never was. You have your memories, you have the mask that you created, the masks you built anew when the old one no longer fit, you have a collection of masks, and you have yourself, wondering, questioning: What if? Maybe? Where? Why? And what was he really? But you have not me, and really, your memories never had me, they were you, they were your experience. I'll be gone, forever, never, not even a question, and what you're left with will be the things you know of me. You will know me then.














Bunny wakes up feeling sick to her tummy and very drowsy. That character of the gnorsis party is sitting across the small rectangular prism polishing his trumpet with a brass flossing oil. He looks up at her with his shiny round black eyes. He blows a little wind out of the round orifice on his forehead. That is the way with gnorsis people, always blowing, sucking, well, what have you. The elevator shifts and crinkles as it moves up the scaffolding cliff face rock. Bunny is rocked and turned a little. They're moving up. Bunny doesn't know how long they've been moving or how much further there is left to go. She also doesn't know where they are going. The other looks at her with tears in his eyes feeling very tummy. Bunny can smell the smell of motor oil and elevator fumes, the bare frame not protecting her from a charcoal wind blowing from the eastern horizon that is barely glowing crimson of the morning coming. She feels like she could fall over. She feels like he could fall over. She holds onto the support beam and the railing overhead. The elevator shakes its way up the cliff face. However farther it will go, it continues vibrating, like it's hesitant to reach that destination. Bunny hears some wierd gargling noise coming from that character of the gnorsis party. When they reach the top of the cliff, he picks up his trumpet, holding it to that orifice, and he plays her a song that is beautiful like the birds chirping and the grass dying slowly in a happy way as it returns to fertilize the earth for new grass, but grass is a weed, and I don't know if that's actually how grass works. But the grass dies, and we say our good-byes. He leaves bunny alone holding her red scarf which she didn't have when she was at the gathering or when she had woken up in the middle of the night, but it's here now to keep her warm. Where will she go? But there's only one way forward from here. This is the way to the shuttle station. So she walks along the crooked cliffside, not able to see what lies below her feet, barely knowing what's around her or what's above. She walks foreward on the cushioned pads of her slippered feet, slippers she did not have when she woke up in the middle of the night confused. She walks past views of velvet treetops in the horizon, smells of tea and morning coffee, and houses on the way. Headed towards the way station, she passes crocks full of rainwater dirty with the sky's filth, filth that is not the sky itself, but things hanging in it, plastic stars and wooden horses, fleas and bees and the mosquitoes, fuzzy curtains and red ribbons. People and their askings, questions like the sky above. She walks towards the way station, where she meets a tall skinny man wearing a gentleman's hat sitting on a bench and reading the news. She sits down beside him, and she waits with him for a long time not telling him what she thinks is going to happen next. She sits with him until the shuttle comes to take her away, and then she says good-bye, and she departs.









The streets of Ko Laria are lined with stone lamps that are fitted atop yellow structures of kary stone that are decorated with engravings of the sun and the old worship. These engravings describe a scene: The High Komm, paying tribute to the council of the elder sun lords who were chosen by the great all-mother to oversee the comings and the goings of the people she left a wandering these cold stone streets in supple confusion pursuing that warmth she had left in her wake. There is no significance to the fact that this is kary stone, in fact it has its origins in the marrow of Venekym who once consumed the mother's history. The people of this city understand the mother to be the lover of that colossus, it is a vague concept passed down along many long cycles of the abalith through the burning of sun flares. 

	Lorence Del is walking down this street with a book in his hands that is haphazardly strung together between two sides of nava hide. Pages jut out crooked, uneven it bounces and wavers growing tilted by the hinges as he marches with a hurry. He reaches the destination, a cold stone building on the outskirts of Residence District. It has a sign carved out beside the door that says Tava mu dalus. He hesitates for a moment reaching his cold hand out towards the surface of the cold ivory door. 

	Mother helping of damms hide he's left us fall. Tell me this isn't the only way out there.

	Lorence Del gathers his things together as he ganders into the betting glass chamber. A dog with yellow jewelry looks up at him from a card game. He steadies his gaze, the both of them do. There are two others inside here, a bird and a strange hooded figure at the back facing a wall where there's jewels and a stone hammer painted black. The steady rhyming sound of tinkering glass jars plays out in the hazy distance past the back wall. And there's a smell of motor oil. Del swallows nervous nervous nouversely. A verse of tempered lungs plays out in the midst of the ensuing tension and Lorence Del takes the opportunity to scoot over to the windowside counter and place his book upon it.
	
	He arrives so let us hear his speakings. Don Caprio said he'd bring us news of the butters and that batrix.


'I don't understand this one.' Pollen whispers muttered strangeness under her breath. 'What? You'll have to speak up'

	'What on earth is a batrix?' Spoon is nodding solemnly from the director's chair and sitting beside her her trusty assistant Henry Larinx. 'It's a type of worm. It's skin is made of fabric yarn and its teeth are razor july gemstones.'
	'Well, I don't see how that has anything to do with the story you are trying to tell.' Spoon's intent is gazin
	'Have you read that far ahead?'
	'I have. And more than this silly concept I just don't think the story is any good at all, because there isn't any tension'
	'There is tension. I am tense. I feel miserable'
	'And these people are all so unpleasant I don't understand how I'm supposed to like them at all.'
	'They teach you something about being alive you hadn't considered before because it's from a perspective that's foreign to you'
	'They teach me nothing about being alive in the real world. People are not actually like this'
	'They teach you about what it means to be alive because they are living just the same'
	'I have learned nothing'

Henry Larinx shifts uncomfortably. It is clear his premiere is a flop. He doesn't know if Spoon will give him another chance at the lead writer's chair ever again.

	'On the contrary. I think it's an emotional rollercoaster.' This is timid Jinks speaking
	'Half the story. It's an emotionless rollercoaster and it makes me want to vomit my corndogs just because it's so boring.'
	'I actually feel like I kind of want to vomit because it's actually really scary really'
	'Well, it doesn't matter, because no matter what it makes me feel I can tell you it is just completely pointless'

Henry Larinx feels the need to object to this.
	
	'Actually, the point of the story is how waking up every day doing the same thing every day makes us less agile when the time comes and we get unhappy.'
	'Well, who's going to get anything out of a story like that? If an unhappy person wants to see somebody who is unhappy, they can just look in the mirror.'
	'That's kind of cruel'
	'That's kind of not like you, Naria'

It's true that it isn't like her because she's been having second thoughts about sleeping on her neck and it's made her very crabby.

	'Ugh. If you need me, I'll be in the garrison field.'

And then she leaves


A man who is scantily clad in rags of a landiss hide walks with the broken body of a young daughter in his hands. He walks along the beaten and roughed along stone stepways of a distant village settlement towards a brass shrine hiding snugly fitted between two crescents of the oblorn landscape. 
	The rough hide scraping his bruised shoulder
	The soft hide felting his yonder byway
	His legs scraping against the felt drapings
	Brow broken in a mistaken passage


In the tidepool we find a little doll with eyes made out of charcoal, faded charcoal wet with the massage of a masticating tidepool rubbing dubbing over black charcoal with a fine sheen coating array of slime and the sea gunk. Somewhere else we find a Robin playing the harmonica for an audience of roses and waterlilies. One of them says to him that he is a most brilliant musician and that he would ought to hit it big in the capital Mezahartti but the other one says his music is of the most undesirable sort so that when it is heard it causes a sensation of unpleasantness like grating parmesan against the cranium. Ah, Ah, Ah. Ah. Ah. I am correct. I am correct.
	Somewhere else the great oak is singing woods of a masticating sunrise masticating in the masticating wind masticating underly mastications wind. Undulations of a passing wind overdubbing math concepts judging properness in the outwardly ways of a nevermore tidepool. Baran the man eats cheese with crackers as he speaks to the squirrel.
	'Tell me this isn't the only way out there.'
	'There is one other way, if you walk far enough to the east so that you've passed the jagged mountain range and looking at the tundra of broken machinery created by the preceding ones called Justen. Justen fall in turmoil ways for folly of a weaker scalpus.'
	'I would like to reach that place by taking the westerly road.'
	'You are talking about a place in the east and taking a west road'
The squirrel retreats back into its hideaway within the small pine tree that is shaped like a heart made of gingerale.
	I eat apple candies. My name is Harris, and I am made of cheese. When you touch me, I wheeze, and ever talking we will sees I'm seazing the day that seazles on the stovetop knees. My knees, they ever crimple underneath my weight, the apples that I ate, give me strength in the knees to rebate, rebate will talk much whether made household seven week topple wayt. And when I touch your name, I squeeze, I squeeze in all my shame when I touch your name.
	The squirrel comes back out to eat apple candies with the man who is shapped like a gingerale.
Gingerale I shap, on my tongue will snap, like a gingerale, always made of mapp. And when I's made of mapp, gingerale I shap. Tongue tie wister mau li pow hole. Do you wonder what I say? Wish It All Away. Do you think my words to stay? With You In The Day. And Have You Been A Lay? Time WIll Find A WAy. Eating all the gingerale, we slide further into the gingerale bottle where we become stuck with all the gingerale.


The time is fifth passage second cycle



The resident magician prepares scented candles and little dolls for his bath. The room is lit in an orangeish haze. The room smells like jemberries. Outside the room Laramy is pouring through an ancient tome as the Sparrow sits in a little cage, his head all fuzzled up. Rain strikes the patio. Two boys are outside in the yard turning the soil. The window, which is shaped like a kitten's mouth, is made of yellow glass. The glass is fragmented in an intentional way, and where it is upwards strikes the light that is amber cinnamon apples from a severance station. Laramy shuts the book with a doosh, she grins on her face mouth and looks at the Sparrow, who is foaming at the mouth. She walks to the cupboard and picks out a couple of little red berries that are attached by a golden nerve ending. She puts one of the little berries in her mouth and then she walks over to the Sparrow's cage and she puts a berry in his food dish. And then she dies.

---
The meaning of Life and the things we do

	The little red train has slowed to a falter. Sparrow picks it up and puts it in his mouth so that it cannot slow again. When he takes it out it has changed its form, and it carries him away to the red mountain where he meets the young apprentice witch. She asks him a question.

	'My name is Laramy. You've never met me before because I live with the magician, but I've been watching over you these past several seconds. You're not quite the same as you are. That's because you were eaten by a turquoise afald. So what happened to you after that?'
	'I did not make it to the end.' The Sparrow is dazed but he remembers that much.
	'That doesn't help me at all. You're going to have to be more specific.' The mountain erupts. It's made of gemstones. I'm touching your face.
	'The last thing I remember I was playing with a purple diamond. And then I met my mother.' Sparrow collapses under the weight of the revelation and then they are transported to a green meadow with sky blue.
	'She is not your mother. You were created by a man named Lucius Wolfe and you are not actually a living thing. Don't you remember that much?'
	'The last thing I remember I was a real living sparrow.' He spreads his wings and collapses under the weight of the revelation. He collapses into himself and feels more alive than he's ever felt before. He feels entirely free and he flies free flying free flying free
	The red mountain explodes. It's made of wooden painted toys.
	He puts one in his mouth. It changes shape and becomes a dragon. The dragon dies after seven thousand years of waiting. The apprentice magician asks him again
	'What happens next?' The sparrow enters a state of comatose wondering at the inquisitions of a man named Lucius Wolfe, who is not actually a man, but the mortal incarnation of revelation. The next thing she knows, Laramy has been rejected by his thinking puzzle and enters a state of un-existance. Together not existing they take a walk down the cobblestone path of a wooden mount horse keeping village. Laramy falls. Sparrow stands. Himself standing, he watches her fall deeper into his mind, she becomes a memory and then he forgets. Somewhere past the white picket fence he becomes a larva named cattleson. The larva, existing such, is like a worm but will one day become something entirely otherly. Sparrow himself becomes a bird, where he flies towards the highlands. Telling me this is not the underside, we've become the lacking wonderways. He builds a house there, where he becomes a anthropoid monster man. Touching matter of an ancient byway, he asks the witch again.
	'What happens next?' She answers telling him this is not the true shape of reality and that he will need to return at the turning of the cycle. The time is always fifth passage second cycle when she asks him to return at the coming of the dawn. Telling him this is not the true nature of time she asks him again
	'What happens next?' Eating oneself is an informal type of intimacy that results in defecation of the self. The reason a form of Magic must absorb another is because it wants to. Interaction damages us always, but we still need to consume to be fed. When one form of Magic absorbs another, the result is defecation of form and the perpetuation of Magic. This is why we need to interact, because when form is discarded we can be absorbed. We want to be absorbed, this is true, because existing as a singular entity causes Magic to diminish. We must sacrifice our Magic for the perpetuation of Magic. So he asks
	'What happens next?' You are hurting my head you are hurting my head you are hurting my head, why are you hurting my head? It's because your head is made of spiders. The canyon stretches wide. No river runs through it. This canyon was created by a star that fell to the earth many a year ago, streaking across the earth it created a canyon. I live here where I search for that star, but although it happened that way you cannot pursue the star by following the canyon as you might assume, because there is a point the canyon wraps around the plane of existance and merges with its tail end. If you just follow the canyon you find yourself going in circles. In order to find that star, you must eat more cheese. He asks her why. She says it doesn't matter why. She asks him
	'What happens next?' But he doesn't have an answer for her this time. He is cleaning the dishes in a little hut where he finds a kitten made of stone worshipping the cat he finds himself wrapped up in a nevermore wondering for the minds of men who don't think to ask about cherry pie made of human defecation. Do you eat the pie or do you let it go to waste? The truth is that the pie is inside you already. Wondering about that he asks
	'What happens next?' It is the death of the self. It is the creation of a newborn, it is a star made of home. There is an amber shadow across the face of a plane. The plane stretched far, it doesn't anymore. The plane is made of cheese. Why is it made of cheese? Eat the plane, you will become made of star. Therefore you are sent home where you change your form, it being nevermind. You don't change your form and everything is meaningless. Unsatisfied with the idea she asks him
	'What happens next?'

	He tells her it is the lava rock and suddenly she understands. She shakes her head to eleviate the wondering, her hair flaps shaking on her head. She looks at him rather blankly and tries to smile. And then she sits down and starts collecting rocks. Sparrow is a little dazed and doesn't understand until she begins laying the foundation of a small house, at that point he joins her. The little house they build is adorable against the cliff face rock. As the abalith crescendoes we reach the ending of our story with a happily ever after, and the sun sets.

The resident magician reaches the foot of a spiral staircase. The steps winding behind him, he enters the room delicately carved in a hill. 'Laramy? Where have you gone to?' His voice, gruff. He is still dripping wet from his bath. He enters the chamber enlarges to swallow his form. He becomes inside the room. He looks a telephone and rings home. Henry Larinx is the one who picks up.
	'Hello? Who is this?'
	'My name is The Clarius Faie. I live here and I'm looking for my apprentice. Her name is redacted'
	'I haven't seen her around. But if I ever see anybody around here, I will ask them if they have seen a redacted'
Clarius gets off the phone. He hesitantly puts it back on its holster, deeply unsatisfied with the conclusion he has reached. Narrowing his eyes his brow wet with bathing water, he crouches down and peeks behind the ablemann shelf. He sees a passageway, and suddenly is struck. So he grumbles. Frustrated with himself. Of course, he gets down on his knees and begins crawling down the passageway. The way gets tighter as he gets further along it, but he isn't sure because sometimes it will enlarge for a moment. At one of the points where it enlarges he gets up (it's gotten so wide he can stand in it) and looks sideways out the glass dome in the ceiling. The passageway is so wide he needs to be standing on the wall to see it. But outside that glass dome, there is a squirrel playing the xylophone. He bangs against the glass. It looks at him startled out of its wits. He shouts but it can't hear him unless he's banging on the glass, because the vibrations of the glass get carried out into the air above it. So he picks up a stylus, puts it against the glass and begins playing a disc, which he turns around stealthily with his fingers against the opposite end of the stylus, on which is recorded the following message:
	'Greetings from the moon. I am a moon man, I come from the moon and the moon is my domain. If you are hearing this message, I have gone away and am not at home for the time being. Please await my return in the meantime, I have a favour to ask. I am looking for other moon people so if you see anybody who is similar to me please ring the following number on your dialatone. My contact number is 8733889102-1799. Can you remember that? Get out a piece of note paper now. My number is eight seven three three eight eight nine one zero two dash one seven nine nine'
	The squirrel goes back to playing the xylophone and Clarius grunts the only thing doing to be to hope that creature understood the message and is of honourable character. He puts his recording equipment away in a leather briefcase and gets back on his knees again.
	At the opposite end of the little passageway The Clarius Faye finds himself in a little clearing with pohli flowers and saplings. He takes a deep breath of the fresh spring air, and begins into the knotted byways of a wooden palace. This is the time of day between when the sun has set and the air gets dark, so he comes out past a little creek to an open air of lavender starlight. The blue sky teases timid flowers for an earlier day until the little sapling grows into a wooden statue. It is shaped like a bottle of gingerale. The wizard passes it a dying glance and continues out into the field. Seven hours later he comes upon a village lit in the night by little orange lanterns made of paper and glass. He picks up one of the lanterns, and continues down the abandoned streets. Passing statues shaped like worshipping cues, statues shaped like tools and little houses, all made of wood. The villagers mowed the forest to create a myriad statues, and without the forest they have all passed away. It is a bitter irony. Thus does Clarius continue.
	In the darkness of night, the pitch black darkness a fevered bird sings lullabies to the wallpaper, distant ancestors a foreign tongue. Sitting on a perch a wooden stick with amber bark, its feets spindle spiderly downwards grasping fervently at the air below, pursuing, hunting mayflies, azure beetles and the mosquitoes. When tourmaline brings home the pizza all my world is a frenzy. The streets of Italy painted velvet, walking nevid waywards hereto. I get up in bed pushing woolen sheets and heavy velvet, the wallpaper, which is made of birds and the geese, is a faint outline grayscale in the midnight. I hear a voice painted tomato sauce parmesan meatstuffs and the peppers in the adjacent room calling for my name in tones a byway gone, and standing faint thresholdwise a figure painted black against black, distinct but which is lighter black I could not myself perclude. Suddenly the geese, singing byway gone again.
	My name is marked in amber shadows, painted westerly colours of amber blue and the velvet red. The velvet green, touch my byways again. Remember every memory a memento and memorial made a melody of memory. The things we remember being memory in a bygone form.
	Ruby speaks my name is something not like what we've gone again. Call me outwards make me see my name is not so far gone, dizziness a bygone grasping at mayflies and the beetles. Sing to me sing to me notes a broken melody a made again symphony, picking up thoughts and leaving behind the things I feel. Sapphire days, her voice a symphony of robins and the geese. He speaks to me an amber blackened form in the fleshold of my lighting, the streets of Italy his name I'm not so likeways gone again then. I like to remember my name is nevermore in this place called hallowed flannigan. He speaks to me speaks to me puncture my form, pulling my upness being wayward sun, abalith abagain. Under woolen and the velvet, myself being. Again I ask
	'What happens next?'
	'You need to get up out of bed if you want pizza'
	'mm'
	'Can't you bring it to me?'
	'Can't you bring you to me?'
	'Can't you be me to you?'
	'Can't me be you are me?'
	'Can't by you be me we?'
	'Can unhold my yourly?'
	'Can unyouly makthee?'
	'Can we be the macsie?'
	'Can a mel lok haply?'
	'Enwi malamakin?'
	'Malamalalamin'
	'Lamamanaminussi'
	'Verilaxinafi'
The kitchen is sky blue and the geese. The countertop is granite wood maxie fifth. Tentacles in the sink remind me again we've left our seventh in the fore. Telling why it's not the backs of teflon tiger hold. Left to asking what the ablong maxie fifth. Tell my name is nothing here. The scent of hot socks spaghettis beef velvet in my nostril. My name is nothing here. Hot against my face and the surface of my fingers. My name is never nevermore. Warm against my lips and the surface of my tongue. Soft against my cranium cressed backwards in a circular motion akin to the dancing of a seventh rabbit. Seven more times down past my shifting throat. My stabbing throat. My screaming throat. Seven more times into my stomach. And the gingerale my favourite.
	We consume so that we may be fed. You inside my stomach, your form does not become me it is your underlying nature that I take into myself. It is the parts of you that are not completely tangible that are the parts which feed me. It is your mind, your magic, it is your experience of the world. In my form together we experience the world, and what is lost? There is lost physicality, there is lost tangibility and measurability. There is lost individuality, but there is made persistence of being. So feed yourself to me in small parts, I'll feed myself to you in small parts, together we'll experience the world in a tangible way that persists managing to become memory. And if I overindulge, let me know. I do it because I want you, I want you now, not in the past, not a memory. Not remembered, fully digested.

Past the village and past the field the resident magician finds himself set before the foot of a red mountain. Grumbling he straightens his back, straightens his posture and begins marching forwards. Up the mountain he walks, turning his head slowly left and to the right he sees wyverns feeding their young and the crows. He sees rotting fences, dying gardens and some twisted trees that are sparsely littering the mountain foothills. He sees rocks and some grass, and he goes up. The farther up he goes the less he sees until the cliff curves vertical and he is walking straight upwards, whereforth there is nothing to see.
	Potatoes are growing in the field she planted last webbers day. A totem stands totally erect depicting faces of a langscrow and the mosquitoes, atop which proud a face called from the distant ancestry, of the name Harris Blunt Lager. His mouth is in a smiling position, his eyes in a crying one, he outlooks observing the field and the distant shrubbery past its reach. At the place where the field meets the brown rotted forest Clarius emerges to upon it, having travelled a many ways. He is greeted by the celery and an asparagus which is shaped like a spoon torch. Eating the asparagus he travels distance little more unto the foot of the patio of a cabin. That is standing in the central midst of the field. Itself wooden, and the mosquitoes.
	So he is surprised when the apprentice he had been looking for is the one who opens the door, her hair a tangled threads holding a loaf of bread her tired eyes. She holds the loaf protecting it to her chest and looks at him with a cat's eyes. He is so much taller than her, his perplexed invitation reads a fevered judgment, his threaded eyebrows so large, his gray wispy mutton chops, he looks like The Clarius Faye so he looks like a devil. She calls out into the house for her companion who she had been living with all this time. The Sparrow comes out from beneath the nether regions cocking a fifty seven gage shotgun. He shoots him five and seven times in the chest once in the nether regions and they drag his bloodied corpse out onto the living room floor.
	'Oh, dear, I don't think we were supposed to do that.' The Clarius Faye rises and his voice booms inside the little cottage shaking the foundations and causing spiders to fall from the rafters.
	'LARAMY GOH HARRIS, WHAT IS THE MEANING OF THIS?'
	'Master, sir, lord Faye, I had been meaning to do that thing you wanted but I suppose I've lost track of my measures. It's really quite a mess inside here.'
	'This I can see. I will forgive you your transgression for I can see now this is no mere matter for a measly novice.'
Laramy looks a little ashamed towards the floor
	'See. It is so, lord master. But I have discovered something about your son the lord master Sparrow. It seems there is a conflict going on inside his head between two people who neither of which exist.'
	'I can see this. I had feared it was so. Have you discovered any things more?'
	'No I haven't we've just been hanging out together here. He's really quite the bedfellow.'
Clarius Faye grumbles and shuffles over to the Sparrow who has recently expired and is on the floor convulsing like a wraith. His magic having left this world, the option now available to the two magicians seems it must be searching this place which is to them His Mind and perhaps they can also find an exit.

The crew is made up of five people. It is the Justen initiative. They were the each of them selected by high overseer Lancrot, and this is represented by a felt badge. The badge contains his insignia, alongside the country's pride, a symbol of grain. These five are gathered around an artificial lantern, exchanging tales and drinking a dark spirit. What do you think he's hoping to find out there? Olami only knows. Maximilian was sent to harborcross to mine for haystones, maybe they expect to find more here. Not out in the wilderness though, not out in the cold. Oh, lighten up, Baltameau. These are tomorrow's problems. Anyways, I thought of another story from my time in the navy. They all hush and the air around the artificial light is stagnant. This one begins when I was only a boy. When I was ten my aunt gave me a wooden dog that I could study for my drawing practices. For a long time growing up I wanted to be an artist. Now, where was I. That wooden dog was beautifully constructed. It looked like a real dog, but its head was irregularly shaped. Instead of being pointed outwards in a snout, its face was completely flat. It had the face of a loopy dimwit. So when I was drawing it, it helped me understand anatomy and the character of nosassisophy. Once I took this wooden dog out into the yard where I carried it out to the creek. The creek was blood so I hopped over it. On the other side was a flesh garden, I sat down beside a little lung and began resituating the limbs of that little wooden dog. I shaped it into the shape of a tree and I planted it there for seven years. When I was seventeen I returned to the place past the creek and retrieved my little wooden dog. That was the day before I was conducted into the navy. On my first ship I had that little wooden dog, I kept it in a cabinet by my bedside. I usually kept it there because I had given up on drawing when I was fourteen. One day in the mess hall I took my little wooden dog with me for dinner. I had it sitting beside me on the table while I ate dinner. The other crewmembers looked at me like I was a loopy dimwit, so I took it back and I put it in a cabinet by my bedside. One day when I went to check on the little wooden dog I couldn't find it in the cabinet. It set me in a panic, I had no idea where it could have ended up at. I searched for seven hours and sixty minutes before I found that little wooden dog in the cargo bay where it was situated in the shape of a tree facing outwards at the golden sunbeams of a math attendant's forehead. He had such a beautiful forehead the little wooden dog just couldn't help looking at it when it was shaped like a tree. So I had to make sure the little wooden dog wasn't shaped like a tree to avoid any misdemeanors or shenanigans. So I put that little wooden dog in a cabinet by my bedside. One day when I went to check on the little wooden dog I couldn't find it in the cabinet. I knew where to look, I went down to the cargo bay but I couldn't find that little wooden dog anywhere. Later in the mess hall my best friend came to me with the little wooden dog and told me he had been using it to unclog the toilet. They all laugh. It is a funny story. Ulmer chuckles at his story and plays with his fingers trying to calculate if he had ended it in the best possible way or if there might have been another way to tell the ending that would have been even better. It doesn't matter anymore, because he already ended the story. Don't be weak.
	They tiptoe single-file down a narrow outcropping in the frozen landscape. To one side there is a sheer cliff face wall of ice, and to the other there is a sheer cliff face drop into abyss dark. They need to be careful to avoid falling, and the floor is a little slippery although it is frozen solid. Above them the sun gleers scarlet like a drop of blood. Like a dark drop of blood. Woah! Somebody slips and falls into the darkness. The four of them that are left will have to be more careful next. When they turn a corner the sound of rushing water comes into earshot. In their minds they picture a dark slushy river bored deep into the snow, the river is a mile wide and is a dark turquoise. It sluggishly rushes and splashes. When they can see the river they can see that it's a little darker down there. The snowfield looks gray underneath the shadow of the looming canyon pass. The river looks black turquoise. In the distance there are crimson lights and smoke signals, a sign that the native party which arrived previously is awaiting their arrival; at the far end of the canyon they will be camped where they are awaiting the new arrivals. Ulmer sniffes loudly and rubs his purple nose that is freezing off. Baltameau belches. And Grinsa pulls the load on his back to a more comfortable position and lets it situate. And McCullaugh is walking across the narrow outcrop. Jarus will be missed.
	When they reach the torquoise river it has faded to a velvet colour. McCullaugh grabs a measuring tool out of his pocket; the tool is composed of a metal body with three red knobs to adjust the tolerances and a jumping metre with a yellowed face that is designed for actuating feet. McCullaugh puts the tool on the river bank with its foot extending down into the water and the four of them watch it expand. Retrieving the actuator McCullaugh declares that the river will be too dense to pass so they must find a place to cross above it. They walk for several miles downstream and eventually they come across a bridge that looks sturdy enough to hold the weight of one of them each at a time. The bridge is built out of a foreign lumber that is not known in home Justen but the assumption is made that it has tolerances. Baltameau volunteers to be the first to cross and he crosses safely. Grinsa is the next to cross and he crosses without any issue. McCullaugh crosses third and doesn't encounter any trouble. Ulmer crosses last and he crosses safely. When they all four of them have reached the other side of the river they set out down the length of the canyon towards the place they remember seeing flares. It will be a long journey and it doesn't help them any that they've been walking the opposite direction this entire time.
	When they come across a large crater in the ice it's tempting to slide down there and investigate the oblong metal seed which is planted upright in the earth. Grinsa bears his fangs and with a foot in front of the other his hands in a sideways airplane he scooters down to the centermost position where the seed is standing right beneath his loins. Bending down to look at it, between his legs; reaching down to pick it up when it begins to glow a dim red light across its surface area. Startled, Grinsa collapses backwards and crashes through the ice that was behind him. Leaving behind a gaping black hole, the metal seed retreats into the ice before the round cavern of the crater is healed and the ice its surface area restored. So the others are dumbfounded when the little metal seed re emerges Grinsa having fallen beneath the ice. McCullaugh takes a notepad out of his back pocket. In it he records the crater's diameter, depth and surface area by estimate. The three of them then continue their march, walking around the crater instead of going inside of it.
	Eventually after a long time walking they find themselves stood a short distance from a little structure made of ice standing on the tundra. After exchanging pocket marbles it is decided for Baltameau to enter by the doorway and have a peak inside, hoping to find supplies or something that might aid them in their journey. When Baltameau opens the door his face is blasted with cold ice crystals that are intermingled with the air. He takes a stark breath of air in his resolve he steps inside the little home. In there he finds a dead man his body positioned over a tabletop with a small black chest in the corner. He opens the chest, and finds several protein bars. So he takes the bars and splits them with the rest of the crew. When they eat the protein bars they find out that most of them are raspberry flavoured except for one which is flavoured like avocado and nuts. McCullaugh takes the one that is flavoured differently because he's the one who bit into it first. After filling their bellies the three men continue marching.

The smell of rotting flesh is faint upon the air at the place where the cliffside encompasses a field on three sides but one. Tents are cropped on wooden stakes supported on tevid structures a framework composed of metal poles. The Clarius Faye is sitting on a log near a burnt out pit scratching marks in a stone. Laramy brings the fabrics from a more distant country; putting them down beside him she retreats inside of a green tent that is slightly wet from rain and she begins perusing the evening news. Clarius Faye picks up a cloth from the tangled heap and arranges it in its natural standing by flapping it against the air. He places the fabric on the pit and places the stone on which he has carved the names of seven people on top of the fabric. He places another fabric on top, this one a pale blue with little red flowers on it in a pattern. After that he unzips himself and takes to rest on an ether plane.

McCullaugh, being the most observant of the party, is the first to notice when they come upon civilized outpostings. This being the place at which they had noticed the smoke signals and the little lights, they are the each of them rather unbegotted. Baltameau takes off his undergarments and defecates on the icy ground to indicate territorial claim. Ulmer cuts his wrists and lets a little blood drop onto the ground before he cauterizes the damaged skin sealing some of his veins shut in the process. McCullaugh just laughs and spits onto the ground. And then the three of them undress and stay the night in a lodge.
	When they wake up they can hear the river louder than they could when they were passing it on the cliffside. The artificial light is penetrating nevid taxabrilliant of the outermost tidepool. When they eat eggs and sandwiches for breakfast they know the birds are farting blood. Ten seconds later a man with a tophat comes into the room and gives the each of them a copy of the morning news as described and edited by The Maxabrasion Sunn. They also eat this. Before placing it down on the countertop by the window the windowsill. The books on the windowsill. The windowsill? The books on the windowsill counter. The morning news that is, on the windowsill counter. The newly come to the table man talks to them. Welcome to the lodge my good friends, today I would like to introduce you to a number of activities. First there is the sailing on the river tourboat guide tour and there's also the playing with the darts in the afternoon section. Afternoon it is the pool, and also there is the establishment on the outskirts of the property. It is shaped like a garrows battling and its name is a betting eventide wondering. When I go there I sneeze, I sneeze in all my knees when I go to say please. My neck is bleeding, my neck is bleeding, don't mind my neck is bleeding, it will be alright now, don't mind my neck is bleeding, my head is not going to be severed again, don't mind it, don't mind it, don't mind my neck is bleeding, my head is not going to fall off again; my neck is fine, my neck is bleeding, my neck is just alright fine. Alright fine I will go with you but the others are staying back at the lodge. Ulmer is the one who wanted to go because he is badly depressed and contemplating suicide.
	The river is long and windy and water splashes the people on the banana wood tourboat when they make a sharp turn. The tourguide is a man wearing a tophat and suspenders and a goofy striped t-shirt made out of monkey shit. The other people on the tourboat are made of sand and they talk to each other like they know fuck all about what it means to be alive. The tourguide speaks on your right you can see a windmill that provides power to the various facilities in and around the lodge. The windmill was designed and created by redacted and it was originally embalmed but is now cremated. Everybody nods their heads in approval. There's a curious factor about this windmill in that it was originally designed to puppeteer the lifeless bodies of salarymen. But as time went on, those salarymen built a lodge and began using it to power other more complicated facilities. Now it runs a supercomputer that has the ability to discern the meaning of segmented metaphors. But as time went on, redacted was named Timothy and he used the unholy power to create a giant machine which is now lost beneath the earth. Somebody has a question about the vista in description. Well what's your name lad? And my name is redacted. I have a question about the windmill: How does energy from the sun power a super computer, when computers are powered by a thing called a thing, called a... thing called magik. The tourguide laughs, HO HO HO, don't you know boy, that enerfy grom the sun is approximate to Magic? That is very fascinating thank for informing me your majesty. Everybody nods in agreement so that the tourguide can move on to the next segment. They turn a sharp corner and everybody is splashed by a little spray of icicle masskkson. Woah! Like we's all a dolphins! Hahaha! The tourguide Adresses As Such, On your left you can see a beach made of sand. The sand is a fine pigment harvested from the turquoise afald, the pigment is white because it's actually a lie. Ulmer raises his hand Yes Boy? Wel I have a question about windmills that are made of sun: Because windmills usually use power from the wind and not power from the sun, how did you enable a windmill to recieve power from the sun in the stead of power from the wind? The tourguide gags and screams softly that one should never derail the conversation that is currently in motion and Ulmer is thrown off the boat. He swims to shore. He goes to the aforementioned bath house. 
	When the others are looking for Ulmer to participate in the afternoon darts game he is nowhere to be found. They ask the man who had been leading the tourboat, and he tells them that ne'er'do'well was discarded from the tourboat in favour of an empty seat. He told them that after that he retreated to the establishment on the outskirts of the property, no doubt to calm down because he is so retarded. Now Baltameau and McCullaugh are walking along the outside wall of the establishment. It is covered in a fine layer of slime and the sea gunk and its name is a battle eventide garrowmile fucking nevermore tidepool again. Eventually they reach a window that also has a plaque describing it is not a bathing house but the Human Boiling Room. Looking inside the window they can see a large man-sized vat with a mostly digested mass of flesh inside it.
	'Oh, I understand now that this is not a bathing house but is actually the Human Boiling Room. Let's go find Ulmer and get out of here because it's so gross.'
To you who was not granted warmth in life,
We offer recourse.
The two of them come upon an entranceway
Where there are two men standing
Dressed in grey tattered robes that reach to the floor
Their hands each clasped together in a desperate love
Not clasping each others' hands, but their own
Laramy suggests that they enter that place alone
But the two men from a troupe must insist they be accompanied
When the light falls on their faces it is lost in the deep recesses
Beneath and around their eyes
That are puffy closed, having swelled from an unceasing torrential rain
of tears.
It is a tragic irony that the metal plates are adorned in redacted
Names of people who never
And then some of them are
Such that
And in this way
I notice my own name
Was once among them,
But now I have gone
I am not at home at the moment
But please listen to my message
It is carved in a marrow nevid makabrasion battling
Timid voicelessness depth
Surrounding deep as the ocean
And it is called a narrow metal plates
adorned in the names of
other people
who never cared
And were never cared for
The ultimate
The destin hereforth
Carved sevenfold in the oberdin,
My segmented metaphors carve narrow makabrasions
Of the nevid self
Pressing against each other in the depthlessness of midnight
My name is a
Reason to discard the possibility
Of questions left not answered
In the tidepool narrow wondering
In the narrow concept of
being such that
We are not so
And in this way, my name is carved
In the nevid makabrasions
Of a tent
Never being such that
We do not understand
Why or
How
or Not;
Therefore, my name is carved here in a way that makes it more beautiful than it truly is.
So I kill myself, and leave it here for you to find.
Because what was, and what has been, is the true nature of reality.
So don't ask me why
I wanted to leave

I wake up in a muggy sweat, recognizing my name, Laramy the Witch. The Sparrow is unconscious inside his cage, and the Clarius Faye is nowhere to be found. I can still smell noonberries from his bath. I can still smell raspberries from the kitchen. I can still hear the rattling discourse of the stage performance below, where the troupe is reciting the downfall of Jusdenn. I turn over and get up off the carpet. I need to get back in there and make sure the Master is safe.
It is the death of the sun. It is the creation of librium. It is helping me cope with the oncoming pain. It is a home. My home:
Bedlam in the closet. The moths are fluttering everywhere. My jacket is covered in little holes and when I try to put it on it falls apart by its threads into many little pieces. I guess I'll be cold. The bathtub is a crystal necklace. I climb inside it and crawl down the drain. Passing something fuzzy and objects she doesn't recognize along the way, the way gets tighter (with a gathering of redacted) as she gets further along it but I can't tell because sometimes it will enlarge for a moment. At one of the places where it enlarges I find I've gotten stuck and there's no way of getting back up. At that point I bite off my hands and let them fall

And they're falling
When they reach the sewage tunnel I feel around for something useful and find
A golden statue.
It teaches me how
To find the way into the city.

Bug is waiting at the interpass of metal platings.
His thighs are thick and burly.
His arms are spiderly, naked and sticky.
And his face is happy friends face
So my hands tell me
He takes my hands and leads me past a large chamber, where the buskavues buried their dead after the war
He leads me past a long hallway where there are engravings that are rough and winding
He communicates by drawing shapes on my palm with his callused forefinger
It makes me tickle and warp
I giggle and it makes me have to pee
But nobody is watching so I pee and it twinkles down the dark drain

His skin is mostly clean where his body used to be
So my hands tell me.
Bug traces something I don't recognize on my palm
and I giggle
We descend to a place where the air is musky and thick
And then we redacted


The Clarius Faye wakes up in the empty bathtub wondering on the minds of two people who neither of which exist. When he puts on his bathrobes and exits the wash room, The Sparrow is unconscious inside his cage, and Laramy is nowhere to be found. He grumbles frustrated with himself. He can still smell purple incense from her studying session and the dense tome she had been reading is still sprawled upon her bedsheets. Beneath, he can hear the clamour of the night's performance, which is meditating on a village whose denizens built a myriad wooden statues. He coughs because he's sick. He gets the goosebump shakes and wiggles his chops at the cold air outside his bath water. And then he dies.

The little blue train has already slowed to a falter. The Clarius Faye is wearing his velvet conductors hat and he throws a tantrum. He rips a hole in the fabric of spacetime and jumps inside. Inside spacetime he meets a man named Lavender Lee, and he bites off his tongue because his clothes are made of plastik. Plastik wood and plastik trains, blueberry train in the name of a maim. When he eats the cheese, he becomes made of star. A shooting star, he writes poetry describing a blue mountain made of blueberry apple cheese cake. When he eats the mountain, he becomes very fat, which is very unlike the Clarius Faye. His mouth is full of blood from when he bit off his tongue. Do you remember that he bit off his tongue or should I remind you? The truth is that he bit off his tongue and now he's drowning in blood. He needs a lifeguard to save him from drowning, so he swallows a lozenge without sucking it first and that makes things a little better. When the stub of his tongue has been cauterized, he moves forth towards a place where the victor radio corporation of america special broadcast quality tape reel is spooled. When he eats the tape, he becomes made of

	Heaven speaks your name
	In the midnight
	In the midnight
	Heaven won't remind
	me
	of you
	Oh woo~oo

	No
	Heaven isn't real

Clements is sitting in the foyer, where a vacuum cleaner left him. He is bitter because someone ate his cake before he could reach it. He smells the remnants. Vanilla crust. And creme blueberries. No, heaven isn't real. What was I thinking? Just because heaven didn't choose me doesn't mean it doesn't exist for somebody else. He bites off his fingers in lieu of the cake he wanted because he's really hungry.
	Eating his fingers is like eating bloody carrots, and carrot cake is the one thing he would have preferred over blueberry cream cake. So in the end things are better off for having happened the way that they did.

Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit

Bend me over
All the way
Bend in half
Hard bend it

The Clarius Faye reaches the foyer, dissy as can be. Behind him stretches a dark expanse, strange and unforeseen within the midnight. When he looks back, he closes the door, locking that strangeness in the past. He walks over to the desk, the air before him smells like the inside of an old book. The wooden stakes that are supporting the wall are thin and stark, the hue of pale dark caramel; the wallpaper is creme white. But the wallpaper is faded to a beige. There's a window on the side wall looking out into the redacted. He gets the cold shivers when he looks at the icy glass. He sits down at the desk, puts on an accountant's hat, and gets to work.

Seventeen years later Laramy has grown into a beautiful young woman. But she spends a lot of time in her room reading old books. Her favourite books are the ones about revolution. In this long and expansive history there have been many occasions of revolution, some great. Many a time in the past there have been people dissatisfied with the status quo, on occasion this dissatisfaction sparks a revolution. On occasion the revolution will succeed, leaving the people who were quite pleased with the old world left a wandering these supple streets in pursuit of a cold hard gulp of the dark spirits illuminated by an artificial light. Light itself is not artificial; what makes it artificial is a concept that once in the past there was a more true light which has since grown rather dim. Perhaps were that light still shining brightly people would not find it necessary to look at this artificial light in such disdain as they do, for to be artificial is to be distruthful, and absence of truthfulness is the greatest contradiction towards the human experience. We fear that which contradicts us, therefore an artificial light is to be looked upon in disdain and malcircumstance.
	But in truth Laramy is feeling rather distrustful herself. The status quo has failed her so now she dreams of revolution. She remains quite apart from her caretaker despite that he takes care for he is quite pleased with the world as it is existing. Were he to know she was herself planning a revolution, he would have her burned at the stake. Of this she is most certain, therefore she remains apart from the rest of the house meandering inside her velvet nocturne as caretaker stalks the hallway.
	One of those nights, Laramy perusing her evening literature comes across a tome that had been hidden deep inside her closet for many years, probably since they bought the house. The tome is a hard wooden covered block of yellow cane paper, its cover frayed at the edges where constant days of moist environment have licked away the fruits of its integrity with a lusty fervor. She holds the book's matted form in her spiderly clutch, squeezing with a care not to catch at the points where bits of wayward paper have peeled outwards. She sniffs an awkward scent of pilaf stale and ripened by the passing of measures. Her breathing deep, her heart is a wondering what she missed so many times upon this massive tome so strange it was hidden from her pursuit, so unusual that it might escape her perusal, such an extraordinary thing to find such treasure where before has been combed much; she can barely contain her excitement. Her eyes hot and flickering percieve a strange word upon the surface of the cover: Farroway. S... Sullamin Farroway. Goh Makriah, Sullamin Farroway. Lebus moharus? Kekra min Farroway. She hickkups and strangens towards her bedside where she becomes more made of star.

	In the year 87 of our progeny we will come to the realization that we have been using oil wrong.
	A fuel called obblinflac supersedes any necessity for the perversion of human labour
	Therefore, we create a society based around the principle of seventeen mythos
	This principle dictates that which can be made automated is automatically disassembled
	And used for spare.
	Why is it called seventeen mythos?
	The first five are describing the prescription of a particular manner of speech
	The second three are prolonging that which has come before
	The third seven are understandings articulated in such a manner as to be not significant
	The fourth is one based around the concept of natural selection
	The fifth dictates the manner in which people are to be organized.
	
The revolution then, although so being, brings us back around again to the very first. This being the nature of my quandary, I can meditate on the nature of expression or I can underestimate that which is to be underestimated, thereby estimated. I can continue in pursuit of knowledge, or in its absence can I remain. On this Laramy is resolved, therefore flipping across a myriad pages from that tome so clad in yellow mold did she come across a revelation in the matter of her self.
	The next time I light a candle, I do so knowing its flame is a heresy to truthfulness.

In this hallway are made sacred the values of a hero once dressed in golden drapes, whose gemstones were too perfect for the sake of creating matter for the grindstone. Whose grindstone was too draped in the aftermath of a thought created but not enforced; whose name echoes hollowed in the grand chamber. A meditation on the properly articulated inquiry follows henceforth: That that which was to be made is made, and those things which lose their significance mellow broken in the retrospect of our progeny.

Farroway's first book: Respected in its time by those who read it, it becomes significant for disappearing, those who read it disappear, myself remaining.

The time is seventeenth passage, Four Hundred and Fifty Sixth cycle of the Nokori abalith

I am reading passages from the gospel. My hand slips and falls upon a stone. Suddenly, everything is lesser. Walking down the broken passageways I come across a threshold baked in mud, its heavy breath draws me inwards to a room where there are paintings hanging up which portray the Royalty, those who are higher, magicians and the saints. I regurgitate air made of acid and spiders when the high priest whips me with iron, so I bleed. When I return home, my friends are lowly pigmen.

When the Clarius Faye returns home I meet him with flowers. He eats the flowers and enters his study. When he is in his study, I hear noises like the pounding of a chinese drum. Seven hours later, the horsemen come to light the village on fire, and I perish in the flames. Laramy, on the other hand, enjoys tropicalo in the sun. Sipping from her mango fountain, she smells the crabs from highway noon hour.

Tundra called black rocks on a field of indigo. Silver jets streaking messages in space, in the way foregoing the sea. Structures in and of the landscape, great tectonic plates in the contrast of each other making mythos cold and gray, warmth of illumination not beholden to the laws of the kingship, not constrained in the thoughts of man. In the hotel bathroom, Jacop and his other make sweet love. Elsewhere, the burning fire is illuminated by great walls of steel.

Burning fire of a passion, which engulfs thought. Thoughtlessly made, bluebird song. Tense, clutched fingers, firmly locked, tight pursuit, in and of the pursuit for warmth. The neck, a ligament, the droll and lifeless. Tenfold, ninefold, downfold to a cellar in preservation.

Tenser still, the becoming of a matter shaped for birdsong and treeline in the roughly hewn road trampled by the stamping feet of stampeding bellevue

Tenth, ninth, wheresoever become. Seventeen, twentieth, eresobeing ever

Cluelessly asking for a nineteenth answer. Endlessly, endlessly. To find oneself returning to the first word, thereby laughter.

We reckon that which is to be reckoned, thereby living.

The next time we return to this place, it has been made shallow and dry of living.

Another time, it has been made hallow and rusted bronze keychain.

Fifth, we question

Eighth, another possibility to become more like the cobblestone trail
More like the setting abalith

Tenth, evenly distributed

Fourteenth, toxic aspirations for a nuclear venom wipe

Eventide, here now we peruse the landscape, shaped by an ever wavering sea
Indigo jets in the distance
Waves made saltier for their aspiring to be

My mouth, my mouth. The taste of saliva and garlic. The meditation on thought and expression thus. The fruit candy, made sweet by a sugar. The always changing sea, black wood posts. Boulders shoreline. Playing in catacombs and discovering spiders; the dissolution of self, the absolution of self. One self, one's place in the world, another self, one's own being. The true self; being in harmony. That which people pursue by change of mindset, by aligning their themselves with an arbitrary concept shaped by external measures. Some pursuing by reform of external measuring systems. All being arbitrary, peace in truth for letting go of harmony. Instead true harmony being in the relationship with structures of thought, however structures are built to be eroded with time. The truth is it's all in your mind, so find peace in time.

Laramy lets go. Constance departs. The turmoil being between The Sparrow as he exists today and the individual on whom he was based, it is left to him to be pursuing harmony.

The following morning, Laramy and the Clarius Faye are having tea in the back foyer. The tea is flavoured like grass

---
In Librium

Rabbit can't find his little sister anywhere. But he isn't terribly concerned, because he knows that Annie is with her.

Laxative finds her thumb in the motor cabinet. She carries it over and puts it inside the television box. What's on today?

	This night on the evening news, giant lizards take Manhattan
	The Manhattan president has issued his verdict:
	Raise the levies, let the river flow
	Join us in the morning news where we continue the journalism

Channel 12
Channel 13
Every channel is the same. The giant lizards take everything, and all we are left with is chocolate milk and orange juice.
Laxative drinks some orange milk and sniffs her bulbous nose, which makes it twitchel and flick


'Princess Naria! My dear beloved! Wilst thoun farilari art mow?'
'No, I wost nost. And I will not love you'
The ferns that are growing on the castle wall have large heads that are twisted in. They are bright green against the painted wall. On the right, and on the left, bloody curtains adorning the stageplay. On the east, there is a wooden cart, inside it little dolls whose heads are made of porcelain and painted in the likeness of little children from the faraway land where women dance on a mountain range with a backdrop of cascading downpour. On the western side of the castle are little blocks of enigma, their likeness so adorning a violet shadow cascading down the far horizon. At the far point of the horizon, a little red circle, in a whirlwind of gradience, its contemporaries foreign shades of gray. The grass that is decorating a forlorn plank is sparse and coloured like a mink's hair, and it hides shadows cast frowards the sky. Amidst the shadowed planes, small pale worms celebrate stranger occurance happened by the mammoth hand that is dominating a western faraway implication itself making signs in a distant language. So far a horizon can be garnered, that in it there are people dancing fragmented at their ligaments celebrating that small round impotence, these people naked they revel in prosperity.
	These people dancing in a clearing of the stone, where pathways draw blunt and the sun is a pale diluted blood upon the cream of the sea. In a massive glass, from which we drink in the name of pursuing to find clarity in lack thereof. Far down below the sealine is crashing spastic remedies in accursed smokes; jagged rocks dance ecstatic static. My mouth is bloody from coughing. And, my lung hurts. My eyes meet the sea. The sea a jagged frost, made uneven by a salt, and it is stabbing too. Behind there are creatures with beaks who eat by carving flesh in the landscape, and their talons are seven, where there is three paws, one two talons, one two talons, one three talons. They do not have protection from the searing cold so they wear the landscape. They also wear, red beads, which are composed of ligament, in the name of God. 

The wooden beams on either side of the stage press inwards makabrasions.
'Be it so that good sir Avery is the next to recieve your blessing'
'This one is not home since latherbary'
'Patience my good lady, is the key'

'I will not await somebody who is so brash to make me wait. Send him here or send another'
'This is not the choosings of Horace the prophetic'
'God speaks in my ligaments, no prophet can claim but avarice'
The pink woolen sheets adorning purple streamers are, yet
Taller on the inside
Estimated by a chieftain whose, yet
Willing for a sun rise

Jocelin is decorated in the pulsating beading veins that flow rivers across her ligaments. Her craniums are cracked and dripping white wine, the smell of perfume is strong.

Laxative stands up from her chair. Her butt is numb and twitches. Her belly crescent concave her skin stretched on nimble limbs. Her tevid lackways, whereforth hencely. My name is carved here in blood scars scabbed once removed. Manhattan rum and the wonderbary.
Make my way to the washroom where I wash up.

I wrap it in a gauze. And on the inside, I enjoy it with a disinfectant sauce. Still it festers, sometimes making my neck cranial. I scratch my neck, pressing my fingers into the veins on my neck, and making my throat bob. And second I vomit squid, its tentacle reaching down to my loins. Reaching down to the bottoms of my feet, where it wraps itself, and taking my foot, departing thusly, into a dark and sheltered well.

We make our way to the foot of a door, that door wooden, that door sterile. When I smell that door, my nose is filled with sap. I falter thusly. And on the other side of the door, I come into a room where there are different sorts of outfits on the walls. Some are decorated in little flowers, and some not decorated at all. On the table, a little purple hydlin flower.

I can feel my hands; my hands are so cold. I need to reach farther. I need it. I need it, I need it so badly, the dim orange lantern is not enough, I need-
Rabbit takes my hands. He looks me in the eyes. His eyes are dark and shiny, his paws are warm, and a little rough. He smiles weakly, smiling the biggest smile he can smile, and then he takes me into the basement where Lakami and Gray Squirrel are already sitting on a magic carpet. He deals me a hand of cards, taking care to distribute the cards so that everybody recieves an equal number of cards. When everybody has their cards, he says something like this
'Alright. Usually we only let the boys in, but I'm making an exception this time. Just for you, so don't forget it, okay?'
'It's not a big deal. Don't go doing something weird and make a debt on her or something okay?!'
'Calm down Jilkers, it's just a bit of fun.' Lakami smiles at me and then he decorates the floor in a cards.
One card is the moonlight, another is a ball of grass tightly wound. A third card depicts a little bird, the kind that eats grass balls. The next three cards, respectively: A mountain goat, a snowflake, and a tribe of seven hairy people. The last card depicts a landscape which is so utterly unfamiliar to me it makes me hickkkup and burp.
'I'm going to start off by telling you that '

The time is third passage second cycle

'The mountain goat eats the bird before the bird can eat the little ball of grass, but the little grass has already eaten the moonlight when the goat eats the grass. The goat gives birth to four: Two blessed by moonlight, one is of the bird, and another was there in the first place. With the goat having been delivered to the sun, the cards are now: A snowflake, a tribe of larks, a painting of the dowrlin, two moonlight, one bird, and a fish. Okay Jilkers, now it's your turn'
'Alright. I can work with that. Give me a moment.' A moment passes and he spends it in consideration. Lakami makes me a cherry vanilla ice cream soda and I sip it while I wait. This is the moment when Laxative busts through the door throbbing angrily. She speaks in tongues as she does, so I do not really understand her. Nonetheless, it's clear that she is trying to get something out of Rabbit. If he ate it or put it in his pants, this is not really clear to me.
'Woah, calm down. Dudes only, kiddo'
Gray Squirrel coughs awkwardly and continues looking at his cards. And then something weird happens.

We follow this passageway down into the bowels of the nexus plane, to a point where we find a stone statue decorated in little red flowers and golden beads. I take some of the beads and put them around my neck. That is when the statue wakes up.
'Who dares to trespass on my sacred grounds? You fall on base desire? Take the beads then; they will show you well'
I feel a little ashamed and put the beads back on the statue. Rabbit walks up behind me and speaks into my ear.
'Not the way. Come on over here, this is what we're here for.' I blink twice turn around and cough into my cold left hand and then I smile at him. He looks at me blankly turning around. I fart

And then I get into the boat next to him. It is only two feet long so nobody else comes, and we paddle through the dirty rainwater. When we reach the other side, it is a small dirt patch like a balcony upon the sea serving a restuarant door. There are little fronds growing on either side, and passing between them I follow Rabbit, as he knocks on the metal door.
'Hello in there. I'm here to meet with Merim, he settled an appointment.'
'Nobody here see bossman, you better leave'
'No, I'm here to speak with him and it's a matter of significant importance to the both of us. So if you don't let me in, I'm rather certain he would be displeased with you.' There is some kind of noise like a shuffling of hamstrings and the banging of wooden pots and then the door opens up. The person who is standing behind it, whose figure is mostly hidden behind the door, looks so remarkably unpleasant it makes my fur stand on end and a little queasy.
'Alright. Good man. Thank you. Now take me to him.' That dark and stoic figure grumbles and vomits into his mouth as he retreats with a foreigner gesture to Rabbit following him and Me following my friend into that place which is rather dimly lit.
	Coming upon a stairway, I almost lose my composure but I manage to catch myself before I fall upon him. He is taking me behind this stranger person into a place where light is an automation procedure but not necessary for common going abouts and wheres. There is sulfur on the air and the sounding of banging clanging when something of a destination is arrived at. My insides are tying themselves a fiddlehead fern the air is my insides going up and down and up and down. I blink my eyelashes, and the air is dark as was befor. A gurgling comes from the stranger character and we are bathed in golden light and purple velvet. The smells upon my nostril is a stranger purple velvet. The character smoking a cigarette who is sat at his desk attending something his back turned the entrance is not looking at us but I can smell his cigarette. My tail tickles my leg.
'Aye Merim my guy, I'm here so let's talk about stuff'
'Oh. Daxta... You really did come. Ah. Whatever, have a seat my good friend.' Rabbit sits down on a chair which looks so comfortable it makes my butt hurt looking at him. 'Oh. Whose beautiful lass? You brought a... pretty girl down here.' I blush underneath my fur except I don't actually blush because it wasn't a compliment.
'Keep your eyes on the prize my pal, I'm still coming here to talk about business after all'
'Uh... okay'

When the dealings have reached their natural conclusion Rabbit escorts me along the way that we took to reach this place.
'Uh. Sorry about that. Just a little business I had to do.' I don't really mind it because I just like spending time with you.

When we get back outside somebody has stolen our boat because it isn't there anymore. It must have been that shady man.
'Son of a locks! We're going to have to swim back to the other side.' This suggestion makes my skin of my legs crawl. When he hops into the water, I know I have to follow behind him or be left behind him forever. I dip my little toe in the water and I whimper but once I have finished crying I worked up the courage to put my feet in the water. At first the water is cold but eventually the water gets warm. The black murky water is so strange and unfamiliar as I paddle along I can't help feeling it push against my skin and press into me from many different directions. I paddle forwards But I've lost track of my friend so I just paddle forwards. I can feel the leeches biting at my legs, and all over my body, and I can feel a warm trail of blood in and around my body, and trailing behind my body as I drift helplessly. I brush past something fuzzy and objects she doesn't recognize along the way, and the way gets tighter as I move along it, but I'm not quite sure because sometimes it will get more open for just a moment. At one of the moments where it opens up, I find I have reached the other side of the puddle. I still can't see Rabbit. I take care of myself, taking care to mend my wounds and lick myself before I follow back the path I remember taking me here.


I eat my fur and open my wounds before I hurt myself. I'm all alone, at one of the places where is opened up, I crawl inside. Inside my skin, I follow the land backwards, across the peninsula towards a place where I can see light. This land bridge gets more and more narrow as I make my way across it, but I'm really not certain because at some places it widens like an island. I brush past my heart and things I don't recognize pushing along my way, I curl up inside of my skin and feel a warm trail of blood all around myself. Making my way I pick up vials of blood left behind by chickens and I drink it to replenish myself. I can feel energy radiate from me in all sorts of different directions, this air is so fresh and familiar as it guides me along towards the strange midnight. I feel this warmth so fully until that darkness is upon me and it stabs me with a bitter cold. But I am so ready for it, it feels just as though the proper challenge for my heart. I lick my little toe playfully and I can see the other side my destination coming up from through the black fog. I know I have to continue marching or be left marching in circles so I only march forth. When I reach the water, I hesitate for a short moment before I immerse myself, eager to be through with it.
'I am so excited to be going to see my friend. I will continue, swimming gracefully. I am like a dolphin'

I crack my head against a metal wall and drift unconscious to the surface. The water penetrates and culminates inside the rivers of my blood.
It pulls me like a puppet up from this crooked hollow and it walks me forth into the copse of metal poles.

'Oh. Hello... You're that... woman from before'
'Yes. I've come here to ask you a couple of questions.' I get nervous when I talk to people so I am struggling to maintain my composure.
'Oh. You came back here to ask me about Daxta... I don't really know anything about him. Anything he didn't tell you about himself. Nobody really knows about that Daxta, just that he showed up one of those days when the sky was shrouded and the fire couldn't keep it all away... I know he wants to know about where he came from, but I actually can't tell you anything because I don't have a clue.'
'No, I don't really care about that. He's my friend so it's none of my business. Actually, I think I'm going to leave now. I don't like you very much anyways'
'A... ha, ha... You're a smart girl. Most people don't' I don't let him finish the sentence because after I have taken in that golden sunlight I depart his little lair and make my way up a dank and shadowed stairwell that was hidden underneath his chair. When I reach the ending of that passageway I come upon a heavy door that I simply cannot budge on my little lonesome. That is when I summon the strength of ten of me and I throw that little aluminum can of a door to the passing. Coming upon a stairwell, I lose my composure and fall inside of myself.
	I land hard cracking my skull against a balcony that is overlooking the great and innumerable desert. The white sands bid me forth, so I obey their command with a lusty curiousness. The sands are hot against the pads of my feet, but I so brainlessly wrought that forwards do I row. I am panting and drooling on my shirt when I reach the jungle, a jungle that is so wild and dark it makes me smell the jungle spiders. I turn around and go upon the shore, and that is where I meet the person who I gave my love so willingly, my beloved, and I hiccup.
'Serafi, I've been searching everywhere trying to find you'
'I. did not want you to find me Alma. I do not want your love any long again. You did so. It did not make me happy.'
'Serafi, I've been looking for you because I wanted to apologize. I-'
'No, I don't accept your sorry this time. I found. New friends for me. I don't need your kind of love this time.'
'What I'm trying to say is that I didn't mean to hurt you. I've been looking for you because I want to be your friend again.'
'*sniff* I made a promise for myself that one time, you know that?'
'Come...' The truth is that I love him deeply and I don't need to explain when I burrow into his embrace. It does feel so completely warm underneath my skin together

Ten more times into the passage
Ten more times down through this maze
Ten more times until it happens
Ten more times I will not phase

There is blood everywhere. Everywhere, on every bone and every sinew does it drip, everywhere beneath my skin together there is blood.


The time is fourth passage second cycle, and Gray Squirrel is getting impatient.

Lakami on the other hand has the patience of ten thousand Gray Squirrels. He sits making chocolate milkshakes and watching them melt, he measures the time it takes for them to melt before they return to being chocolate milk, and then he records that time in his pocket note before doing it again. It is unreasonable to get bored because there is always something left to do. On this occasion, his work is dedicated to Wednesday, who requested an accurate lab result before she opens up her confectionaries booth to the public. Gray Squirrel, on the other hand, does not have any friends more than the ones upon his mind, or at least they are the ones that currently occupy his mind, for whom he so impatients. 
'That's it, I'm going to go look for them. This has been so long waiting. Ugh'
'Suit yourself. I have things to do.'
So Gray Squirrel finds himself tracing those steps he expects they shall have left in waking. And the first thing he does is discover a strange stone statue, which was just around that old darker shade.
	It is adorned in red beads, which look quite a little bit like a couple of nuts, and Gray Squirrel suddenly recollects his fevered sweet. He eats the nuts, not even saving them for later, and that is when the statue wakes up.
'Who dares to - Oh, geez, dude, you just went ahead and did that didn't you? Brother, real' Gray Squirrel is startled out of his socks
'Wh - Wh - Wh, What the Heck?!'
'Well, I was going to impart a wisdom on avarice, but it seems like you are just an animal doing things according to base desire'
'Oh, dude, I don't even know what you're - were those your nuts? Is this some kind of game?' That is when emergin from the belly of the statue with a razor speed comes a stone spike that is about 2-5cm in diameter, and it pokes two holes, one slightly lower and to the left, each situated so that it enters underneath Gray Squirrel's chest and penetrates his stomach. 'Holy cow, holy cow'
'Yeah, that's how it's gonna be like that way. Brother. Think before you act, My Brother.' Gray Squirrel is clutching his chest and that is when the statue returns to dormance. Gray Squirrel licks his wounds to eleviate the pain, but the beads have already fallen out so he is hungry again. It doesn't make that big a difference; they were not going to digest well.

On the other side of the odd pink pond he finds a stick that is decorated in white stripes. The stick's base decor is the gray stripes. Gray Squirrel finds that relatable, so he takes the stick and guards it well. At first he thinks he can use it to plug the holes in his stomach, but in order to do that he would have to break the stick in half (because there are two holes) and he does not want to deal harm as his first impression upon this new friend.
	He comes upon a canyon and feels the canyon gale with a smile and a nod. His furry little face is tickling his pink flesh underneath, and he giggles, he chuckles, ahaha, he laughs! He is so happy to be alive in this moment. He looks down into the canyon, and thinking he sees stardust, begins perusing footholds and handholds and the general curvature of the wall leading down there. His logic being; If Rabbit saw some star he could not possibly resist. Actually, Gray Squirrel is the one who can't resist it.


The time is sixth passage second cycle


Orange juice bubbles decorate this particular decor; there is a block of soil standing between the door and outside. Outside, in the Milan Field, where the wheat grows hearty, a little frog woman is collecting spiders for her soup. Some spiders are large and fight back. She wears a bandage around her right thigh where one of the spiders landed an attack. Soon she will die from the poison, but still she collects those spiders.
	The soup is for her friend, who just returned from the great war. Ever since he returned he's been spending all his time making up puzzles and devising solutions. He has a big problem which he cannot address because it would violate the cultural norms, and he doesn't want to be alone so therefore he is left making up solutions to the puzzles that aren't problematic. After all, a troubled man must solve. The little frog woman is hoping that her variety of artisinal culinary soups will awaken something in the broken man therefore solving his puzzle. However, this never happened, because she was actually making the soups for her injured leg, which required an abundance of surplus energy in the body so that it can never heal. Of course, it will still never heal, because her real problem is the poison, and having extra unnecessary energy in the body only speedens the process of mortification. So soon she will be mort, and this is the moment when something weird happens.
'I love artichokes and choking on art. Do you suppose there's some connection there?' Dime has come here searching for his friend. The person who just said that beautiful proclamation is a man named Lavender Lee, who just arrived back from a time out in space.
'I've heard that vegetables enhance your mental capabilities therefore making you better at appreciating art. Um, but I don't think artichokes are a vegetable' Dime is coughing into his armpits because he doesn't actually care in the least about the thing they are discussing, so it is unclear to his thinking puzzle as to why he makes the effort to resolve the inquisition.
'This is true, they are in fact a nut from mars, but martian nuts are basically vegetables times seventeen, so the same principle applies'
'Oh. Well, I didn't know that' A man named Lavender Lee looks at him suspiciously, but in fact he was also not caring in the least about the topic of this conversation so he is not bothered by such irresolution. In fact he was only sparking this flame so as to gauge this stranger's response so that he can understand the inner workings of his thinking puzzle. That is the D with men named Lavender Lee, always poking, prodding, what have you. In this way, he is not so unlike a magician, but his influence on the world has long since faded to a knit.
	The little orange lady is about to come back from collecting wheat to discover that two strange individuals have occupied her home invited by her soldier friend. But in the meantime, something has caught on the bandage that is wrapped around her right leg. It looks like some sort of key, so she picks it up and inspects it more closely. Indeed, it looks to be a key, but now that she is facing another direction she sees a strange purple thing sitting in the cornfields. At first she calls out
'Oo! Oooo! Yuuuu?'
But when it doesn't respond she picks up her little corn dress and shifts her slipper so that it is positioned in front of her body. Then she does the same thing with her left foot, and makes for the stranger creature, smelling cornflower and the butters. When she reaches the end of that row of corn, she turns 90 degrees clockwise and starts towards the purple thing. Now she can hear strange noise that sounds much like chewing
'munch, munch... brupp'
To her. So she gets down on her knees and notices a leg and some nervous tissue lying on the ground a little bit a head her. She speaks poetry to the strange creature a perplexed expression upon her facade. When she interrupts its activity, it makes a ripping noise like tearing fabric with your bare hands. That makes her smile, as it reminds her of her youth knitting fabrics and the batrix. So she invites it inside for some tea, and it politely accepts.


Gray Squirrel has been walking a fair distance underneath the bowering sun and he comes across a little log cabin carved in the canyon face. He scratches his face twice, the second time taking care to scratch his face narrowly missing the eyebrows, and then he enters the place. Holding his stick offensively, he takes care to enter the home on guard. When he enters that place what he finds is an ornate cremery white table with upon it a silver platter adorned in cakes and a berrie. He is drooling already spittle hanging out his mouth so he makes his way over to the table. But in that moment he let his guard down, and he once again brandishes the striped stick taking care to peruse the interior for strangers or a berrie. Not noticing any odder portraits he scratches his butt and wiggles his fingers in a lusty way, and then he grabs the berrie and a cake and eats some. It has been a fair distance travelling without any food, and he is eager to be full again. But obviously, not unlike the nuts that were beads the berrie only fall out of his stomach. He can feel a tingling stingling upon the pink and exposed nervous tissue at the other hole of his stomach lining and the muscles of his skin as the moist and buttery batter oozes out of him. Oh, well, dear; well. He looks around the cabin, tears welling in his eyes, but sees no odder persons. And that is when he notices a jar of cookies, so he takes it with him.

I feel tired. I feel worn down like an old rag. In the corner, the man from a military band is lounging so as not to attract the mice. However, his suit is slightly worn down at the breast, where years of mouselike heart patter tendered that firm and stalwart stitching. On his other breast he is wearing a diamond ring, decorated in water fruits and little pebbles shaped like drops of rain. At his feet, there is nothing like a good old game of Mexican Soldiers. When we find an alternative, he'll come out to play too.
	A crookedy old lady who isn't recognizable to Dime but strikes fancy towards a man named Lavender Lee, whose bonnet is shaped like a rat's shoulder tumour, she enters this way that is her own and with her brings another. On her face is smiling like orange juice and sunshine at the back of a dingy hotel, where there is a star nosed mole there. She coughs and rasps like words a bygone tongue, her own tongue not familiar words a day come distant; but the tone of voice paints an image as it wavers up and down the bowering scene.
"Ei beebee lo la lele duu doe dah lee lee lee lee"
"Yes, not unlike the one from water rock. But don't bring it in here, it will attract the flies and a mouse"
"Hoe, moe, moh, mooh"
	What she means to say is left understated as things happen, some of which brief.

He has flies dinging around in his thinking skull, some of which eating the poo. His eyes are like googly eyes, except if you shake him they become bloody red. This is Gray Squirrel now, more a gray than a squirrel, really. Every time he puts a cookie in his stomach, he tries to do ninjitsu to keep it in there long enough to work its magic, but the churning of his hunger always makes it shuffle outward no matter what angle he positions his body at. And there is the laser neo surgery of his healing biology pushing it out even farther. Soon, the moisture from the chewed up cookies will create a scar tissue and cause it never to heal, but his mind is elsewhere from such frivolous niceties. Now, this is getting ridiculous. He looks around and notices his friend the pole, who was crude enough not to let him shove it into his stomach all he had to do was fall in half is the only thing he had to do, is all. How I linger in the betting glass lanterns of such a place; this and the irony that a broken canyon path with dusty rocks. Suddenly, the pole that is striped, Gray with White, stands up like a snake and speaks to him its voice like Gerald Mayerr
"Joly make it. Sir you good?"
"..."
"Tevid tevid, goly ware it. Nevor lackthis, his his"
"..."
"...non? Jeral Jeral, Lary! Wa was it not"
"I hate you... you... you killed me!"
"Gorinnal! Ger, gerger? We wor larring"
"It's not right... that I dying... And you should live!"
"Warussammy"
He tackles the stick, jumping at it with all of his might, knocking it over and himself in the process, and then he breaks it into little tiny pieces and eats them, and then they fall out of his stomach.


There is a frog, its home in the pebbles, and it makes dew into wine. Red wine; dew with some blood, terrifically whitened. Never again does such a thing occur. His pumpkin smells like the rubber of an aisle of dog toys, because it is not actually a pumpkin, but the moral incarnation of neutered gasoline and canola oil, with a dash of high fructose corn syrup. Eat the pumpkin and you will become more like the aging rubber of an isle of dog toys, the dog dead and the toys a contrived metric in the percolation of strawberry sugars. Most of them don't care for a conceptual hike, but being such that we are no longer such that things are not the way they used to be.
	Lavender Lee, on the other hand, has a peculiar taste that is akin to parmesan grated against the perforated cranium, there is some bloody marrow, but mostly it is the cheese. His coat, which was weaved on mount everest, is more like american cheese. It tastes like dead flies and things that are made of wood. Dead flies being better than living flies and wood being a hearty infrastructure. Vigorously wrought from masonry and venom high; similarly to the gadflies. Stinkflowers in a garden of mosses and stones, where carved there deeply are symbols from a distant east.


Red gel paste merges with the rapids at the overlapping causeway.
A small deeply green box with metal hinges and a body carved in dents;
If things go the way I choose, not to be confused; with, similarly
dark expansive fields with little round statues whose heads are decorated strangely

In this place where the black mason creak meets a red mesa chalk we find some stranger words. An individual who moved in high stepps from the east, where crickets are more lively gallowee. He does not speak the common tongue, so we approach him with avarice and some sweaty armpits. His first words, not unlike the meaning of a song, are so easily transcribed. These cornfields; grown with sugar, a meditating sugar of the ackhern leaf, but be wary. His next words not so easily understood:

Tin can, containing seventeen, are not lively, but fester stranger. Green strands of saltwater mud, which are rolled and then arranged in such a way as to form divining chalks, but contained in a smaller place where Gods do not wander. So be wary friend, until the day draws a new one for you, these broken causeways are not meant for pining.
	Myself, not a poet, but wondering strangely how circumstances contrive us. However, these things I want are not ever found in a place called hallowed flannigan.


Dime is hiding in the medicine cabinet, but he knows he can't stay hidden forever. Suddenly he smells like the medicine cabinet, and wants to try some drugs that are striped White with Gray but he doesn't know the right portion size. So he just tries them all, inhaling them through his ovular orifice, and then he trips like daisy buds. What I didn't realize is that every once in a while the drainage tunnel exerts a little filth, but every second time it does the sky is darkened considerably. At night we come upon the beach, as one comes upon the sand, and finding ourselves there did invite the musk of seascent. Once again upon the sea, this subject not ever danken, a vivid moon, as it was a marble upon the blackened scab of a mutilated bovine hind, caught as it was by the hungering wolves, the moon also caught so that it wavers in and out of distinct illuminum as it catches upon its surface the many throttled boxes and boulevard caught up in the atmos. Ten more times down through such haze, ten more times I would not phase, were it not for atelier, whereon a boardgame not thought nobel is laid neglected on a perished bushel of mushrooms and lettuce bulbs. Little stones are decorating the shoreline, and I feel upon my face as one does in the cold season something

Not unlike the wavering tagline of a copse of persons

So like the hollow, where flowers sing pale pink illumim
My mother's name, who was always weaving thought unto a broken palace high
Ten more times unto a maze
Mazes not so unlike the wavering line upon my brow
As one line does when the sun is not appeared
So it was when you looked upon my face
Of the old rundown causeway
On one side protecting a long ago garden
On one side feeding rabid hares

Not unlike the feast at seasons' end
When every man woman child gathered together holding hands transfixed
So that these things will not ever become more distant

So like my memory, which does not recall quite the next brief
Ten more times down through this passage
Where humid moss grows on stones, decorating leftmost
Some even decorating on the right
But not such that it is such
So that I only pass them by

But when I reached the end of this garden, my mind was not a haze
But clearer than it was before

Venomous snakes decorate a further dismal where the furred one frollicks with his cane gotten lo holding by a toothed barb wire ten times. Smashed the jar long ago subsists on ventures of the mind and body. So venomous snakes never harm such a one as he was, but reaching the end of the dismal he is stuck in pertinent hazard. What will happen if the place is not so dangerous? But remembering the starlight continues. So that never again are we in this place called broken mail.

He comes upon a ditch where for a moment he ponders. But not pondering for the way, Gray Squirrel contemplates clouds and call. But wonder if he will what happens to those who wonder so long: A rock on the distant where never, to become cautiously carved so forth. He looks around bravely and comes upon a revelation: Things are not the way they used to be.


Stranger, and yet stranger. Tonight's performance is about the brave princess. There were glimpses of the brilliance that would be expounded upon in later volumes; however this first reading does no justice to the whole. Therefore, let us beware. Let us venture upon the crooked crag of a broken dark canyon pathway, as it becomes conjoined with the wall. Let us not falter as we descend by way of cliff face and birk hide into the strange and misting pool that is so very odd. But if, as they do so leave, be able.
	He entered by the narrow and crooked way
	Coming upon a distant palace
	Whose boulevards crowd my carpet
	And passing into memory he gave us
	Continued until at the place where blood heats
	Penetrating a scalded carpet
	And continue, so


I want you. I want you. I want you, but I'm not really in a hurry. So let us stay a while and consider if we will the golden boughs of a purple plastik elephant made out of felt. Sit on the leaves; it only brings us closer. My mind and your mind intermindling like a couple of dirty filthy little minds. Lick my brain like you are want to do, but do not bite my nervous cells because that tingles me in a fervent way. Lick it with your arms, lick me with the palms of your hands and the sweat. Recollecting my fevered sweet, I am upon you and we cuddle, but I'm not really in a hurry.

"Bring me the one they call Saint Harley of the forest. He will be bred with me"
"Sir john of which you speak is no fit for a merrier bawl"
"You question my judgment? I will insert inside of your cranial puzzling that voice of God speaks in my licks and spakcles"
"Oh, I do lament."

Inside the girl's dressing room, it is full with mirrors and little dolls dressed up like a princess. The cardboard cutouts do not betray; my name is carved in hallowed signals. She picks up a brush and starts brushing her hair, and then she says something rather odd which I do not here relate. But know that it is about the butters and a crooked stairwell. Anyways, after this a man bursts into her chambers who is wearing his hair in an upwards green and pink bonnet like a scraggly raccoon. He says harshly
"My dear, I arrive for you, but not without relay my message hear me now, for my mouth is a horn and my anus a crock."
"Okay"
"The dwellers of the forest do not agree with your fathers' rule and they wish to wed you with one of theirs who is going to turn the tides of waging warfare and turn Filas country into a beautiful playground for dirt lumps and calendars."
"Holy! I want that! Let's do it already!"

On the twelth season of the turning it is decided that Harry Butthole of the forest people will be wed with the princess so they will be like one in holy god damned matrimony.

Harry scratches doodies in the lockholm that he must.

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaah

Lariman ginger stocks pierce a crooked byway in the corner of her alibi. Spiders fester stranger still, their ligaments bend perpentus momentus. But they do not move, caught in their webs as they are wont to become, myself not wondering for the little bugs and the larger still that decorate a wall at the far side of allison county jailhouse bank. I do so love my ginger snaps that when they falter in their coming I do wander for a timber lapse. But not becoming myself more dangerous, I hope for more in the future. Garrison ford of the river bank, in this place is carved little seashells and crabs in the sand. Harry butthole takes a poo and we do not but wander want. In the faie woods there are strangers still. But what are stranger stranger tills than when a manger ladder will? Not knowing how, why, if or not, I do continue down this broken road, which is carved in the vistage of a long meandering highway district adorned with little brown flowers and a couple of plastik saks.	Eventually I come across a gasoline station, where stationed there are the teenage men, and scratching my pubic beard to understand puberty. Passing by the gasoline, where oil stinks right out the back turbine shoot at my rear, so I continue on this road.

At the end of the day, Gorolin Station is not a place for weak gnomes. Overlooking the place where the world falls off into an endless looping black, it is protecting us from the darker shades.

In the mess hall a brave knight who is dressed like a gasoline meanders for his edibilia. Not wonder how, why, if or not, he takes a seat beside a little gnome, whose powerful gray eyes do not betray a darker scent still. Belching and gargling his food with a plastik spoon as larger men are wanting to do, the courageous butler of justice does so tower over the old veteran. But in form alone, for spirit is another matter still. He is not quite the same as he is, for his beloved Jocelin is not.


Timid lackforth whereby. 	"Things are not the way they used to be"	.However, I don't think this is justification for a knife. So put down your razor blade and marshal stat.


The larks are performing their ritual on the bold and majesty. The fire dances too, and its leaves are a flowering buttress, palace of a greater still. Larks not like the Gord peoples, they stay secluded.
	However, on this night alone they have a visitor and his name is hallowed verilin.
	Would you like a drink of suup?
	Never never evermore, but do be lovely have a heart.
	I love the nape of you and loving the skin of face.
	Love, love, it is all the same. Do not bore me child.
	Okay. However, tomorrow I will.
	It is all the same as it used to be.
	Things are not the same as they were.


Hard and raucous he slams against the wood her body until pallid and loss her form steeps salvish off the dripping boar. Taking a moment to catch one's breath, as the ray of pinkish yellow light that cascades afront the periodical does likely fall upon a moor and steeping way. Now there is a scent of bloody and oak lingering breathless. Waving slightways but not so it is lesser in a moment. At the other side of the room, a sightly caravan of barn owls. He catches his breath and collapses behinds, falling upon his hands as he trips upon the lickling vista of that languier mare. Not quite able amidst the racing track of his flowering buds, his fingers which clutch at his behinds a little platform traced in silver wood, and panting a little. One hopes to find amid the vista, amid the vittage and the vitriol, but not so here. He does rather enjoy when it is such, so that this leaping wire contrives us but an aching thumb, and loss.
	I hope to make it clear, in the glasses of a monks fare, that things are rather how they used to be.

	And this is how Gowen feels.

	On the other hand, Naria is having a difficult time with her bubbling kneecap.

I enjoy my bubble bath with a soapy sauce; but only until the flies fester. Oh, my, when the flies fester; and the bubble bath is made a little less fashionable.

When I say "all right," or, "okay," I guess what I mean is that I believe I have recieved your communication without fault and also that I find it to be apt. It means that I don't find anything there objectionable and also that its content does not merit immediacy. It means, may be inadequately, that I'm not actually interested in you. May be you haven't given me anything to work with, may be you think you have but I am actually wrong to believe I have recieved your communication without fault. Either way, it mostly means things can go on the way they have been without anybody's interference. Why should I ask for a better state of affairs? Why should I allow you to change them, therefore. So, all being equal, I am all right today.

And when I suffocate the only thing being to do what one must do for the sake of doing
But, being not me but I that wants so, leave it to the owls.
However, tomorrow I will.

I find it pleasurable to enjoy it with a disinfectant sauce so that it festers underneath my flesh not for its own sake but for my own sake. I do love being like this, every day I do love it, but give me a moment now, only give me a moment now, because I am trying to catch my breath.

Therefore, when Gray Squirrel reaches the end of the dripping moor he has found that things are not blue and green today however they were the day before, they were not the day before that, and three days earlier they were more a turquoise moss. However, all being equal, I am all right today. Do you understand?

I enjoy it with a pleasure when things do penetrate my leather I do love it with a jealous delight I do. Now tell me how I've come to you I've not a moment lesser through but let me tell just once again I'll let you in a second win. Leaving only jealous pictures I am such to be the victor now befor I've left you with her let me only be that which her naked nape upon my wick or not the one whose love is sick or may be not such jealous pictures I am not to be the victor let me in before you've ticked her let me know it's all a lick or I will not become the nick or let me know I'm not the tick or let me be here less than hick or let me be here more than you and let me become elven berrie cop the wick or never stick to such that wick is not a lick to be un hither un lor gither feel me now or let me hither thither win the even wins a leather bin or not to lin. However thin I've not such thing to be unless you'll come to me. Oh my brother don't be another I've got a better leather header. Or else you'll let me win the fume and not become a distance zooming faster and faster until all has been laster I'll tell you now I'm not the one to be that one who even sun so leave me now and let me be and let me see I've not so lean until we've been more distant seen or else this scene more distance been. Oh, well, interference, I am not the one whose gear is not to become lesser wear it until you can spare it don't let me be let me do or I will come and make you lose so let me know if I can let me go again I've not one home.

Oh, well, interference. I don't suppose you have a tea? Let me have a tea, I will make it more like your angellic venom master's glee I hope you know I'll let you go I hope you know I have all of your best interests at heart so let I'll disparate noise.
Oh, well, interference. I don't suppose you'd like a cup of tea, It comes with noisy glue that makes your nose more voodoo whinny. I hope to enjoy it with a different kind of living embrace. The thing is that I'm rather not like all has been but all being equal I am feeling not so glue. Love my glue or let me wither, make my glue or I'll go thither, make me glue and I will make you see you're not so diddle wee
Oh, well, interference. I don't think I am living here until I've have a cup of dear. So make it with a different kind of sauce one whose leaves are made of moss and with you I will not emboss this golden shower of ill loss. I rather love to be here now so do not let me leave here now or I will make you lesser how? that is up for me to decide and not for you to interwide I'll let you know when things turn sour or else I'll lick the dripping bower and show you how to make a tower whose hold is more for mice than ours. But not unless you let me here I'll let you know I'm rather lear and becoming less of a mere man mortal makabrasioned sand. I hope to let you know that things are not a mortal ho let me not be or let me not be or let me not le or be not me le or let my nape upon this mare and mortal mare whose hare is care, when hare is care my hair is there
Oh, well, interference. I don't think things are rather less of mine that have a lather
Oh, well, interference. I suppose this way, things are going to get better with time, so let me have a cup of coffee and I will not be your own lofty ambitions which do touch the stars I'll let you know when I'm not garded by a field of moss and stone whose nape is not a wicked throne but rather one whose loosely toned muscular anatomy does make me rather not a natty but more like ancient juice combatty don't ask a jinxing devil where but be no more I'll see to it.
Oh, well, interference. I don't suppose I think you're not supposed to
Oh, well, interference. I like it when things go
Oh, well, interference. I like to think that a cup a jim is not too slim for my own limble knees it's not to please so please me may or not today. Huzzah at play becoming may. I like it when a thing is layed down not laid layed down tell me how I'll get my axe and marshall stacks of chocolate chip boxes whose napes are not jostled by the wavering shoreline wavering shoreline of the cosmic tapestry. I enjoy it with a different kind of loving embrace, therefore making it less of a nape and more like your inner intestines or your organs and stuff. I like it when things get weird because when I remember the proper spelling it makes me feel like a real man whose nan is spam and not a can of hygeine plans. Did I spell that one correctly or did I throw it out the gentry if my nape is not too shapely tell me I am coming lately. Coming where and how and why but not my guise to dissalize. Whose nape is more shapely than mine I will make it not so more gentryluffgoodul Wow! timid makabrasions.

Oh, well, interference. I don't like playing games of cat and mouse because it makes me feel like some person whose name is not carved here in the beache clay but more like one whose nape is like a shapely little necklace of diamonds and silver balls. I did not say pearls notice that I did not say pearls because I am moving on one chapter from the sea who has not control over me, I enjoy it with a different kind of loving embrace by those arms whose fingers did feeling linger but not like so I've gotten tinglier sensations from mice and the crawdaddies even though eating crawdaddies makes one sick to the eardrums I find it rather pleasant to indulge a tempting symptom until I find it's more like grinding teeth against the perforated cranium.
Oh, well, interference. At this point I have come to the understanding that things going wrong is more like the structure than the things that go right
Oh well, interference. I suppose the only thing to do is have cup of english glue I like it when your light is through so bright it seems that shines right through and when its through it hits my face and through and through I like to pace like gentle little cupper lake not minding my own ginger fate.
Oh, well, interference. I like puppies, I like other things too. I like playing in the sand with a ginger boy named glue. I like eating all his hands because his is not too smooth around people whose necklace purpose jangles like a purse of gentle bel
Oh, well, interference. I like other things too. I like playing in the sand with little boys named you. I like eating all the sand so that we can be alone
Oh, well, interference. I did that one on purpose. Could you tell?

I went to the kitchen and got myself a square of mint dark chocolate chocolate. I actually planned on writing that before I even went into the kitchen, which is just how proactive I am as a writer and as a creative man. Only things did not go as planned when in the kitchen and I ended up getting a rectangle of caramel dark chocolate chocolate. Now I am sucking on the caramel dark chocolate chocolate right as I write this sentence
Oh, well, interference. Oh, well, dear, me, I don't know, I don't know, what happened to gray squirrel? what happened to laramy the beautiful old man? Actually, she was the apprentice which, whose spells were so spectalucar we've transferred a little bit off script at the moment. Give me a moment and things will go back the way they used to be. Just give me a moment now. I'm trying my hardest to make something special, I tried and it went a little off the script really, it went off earlier too in case you didn't notice but this has happened before. I can only write like this because I have no idea what I'm doing and the words as they are appearing on the page are roughly the same speed as the things that are happening inside my head. Therefore, that is not exactly proactive writing.

Now I present my essay about what it means to tell a story. Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies, girls, please, please, please stop applauding, please stop applauding I need to speak my essay now. Ah. Ahem. The first thing you need in order to tell a story: Step One: Step One. Of course, this means you need words, or also something else would work I suppose. Also, you need objects. What is an object, might you ask? Well, my good reader friend, an object, that being, an, "object," is a word us writer types like to use to describe things. For example, let me give you an example of an object. Here is an object: Just let me come up with something first. Just give me a moment to come up with something first. Give me a moment now I am coming up with something first. If I can just come up with something first I can give an example second. Just give me a moment now. And then he died.


Gray Squirrel is feeling queasy after wandering the flat affect such a distant ways. Ten years later, things are not looking much better for old Jilkers. Blood is still trinkling out his stomach cavities and now he is almost out. So he comes to rest upon a stone, and the sun beats down like a bully. I hope to make it clear that this is when something weird happens.

	Ten years having passed, Dime has digested those strange medicines in a way that is not unlike finding the solution to a market plob. Lektus wary, but biting his teeth so things make berry flavor. And in this way, tevid boycotts make their due. He doesn't understand that the purple thing has long since made off content on his companions alone, so that being here is made a little more like berry juiced but not spent on a riper mare. Which is to say, it doesn't exactly make sense.

Laramy, on the other hand, is enjoying her chocolate. On the other side of the room, there is a spider. It hurts me it does, but I am enjoying the writing of Sullamin Farroway.

Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit, Narit

Ginger buds are a loyal companion to the summer sweating, but the summer is well near passing now, the girman nil and my sweating not so eager netting. Still a mighty mug of girman is a loyal cup of rosary, but nettles or a till are getting rather still. The farmhouse gone barren, these furtid soils once furtid now weather out a deader leather bound rotary. That is to say, it doesn't really make a lot of sense.
	In this climate Dime is growing rather weary of the passing of his own measures, measuring toothpicks laxadaisy and the nettles. He scratches his necklace diamond pear with a nervous gesture, but eventually things have gotten a little worse. That is to say itchy, and the skin is starting to give way to a hairy matted fibers that are red and pulsate liters of gelatine blood. Still he is inclined to fondle with fingers stark and stealing, although in the grand scheme of things we make not such a lighter bare. So I hope to make myself understood when I say he is rather inclined to not be hurting himself for this purpose. Inclinations aside, his inclination is more hurting himself I suppose. Outside, there is something settling on the porch. It is the orange juice bubbles. Ten years having passed. Past, having lasted eternally.

Which is why the wyrm is surprised when something festers stranger here. I find it on the backseat of my car, and it happens to be a gentle pear. I enjoy it with a pear creme jelly, so therefore when Gray Squirrel finds his way here he will not be decieved into trying to eat it for himself. However afterwards I wonder, a 2.5cm hole might be plugged by the rotundity of the pear if he could only get it down his dam dam throat.

Which is why at the end of the day it's like a darker mare: Not like henceforth, but so that I'll like it with an enjoyable texture. These textures paint us moss and stones, the furs of a gentle creature, the soft linen soil of a gentle sheet for beds, or like my anecdote, a tender bark. In this way, I am not so unlike the wavering shoreline. Which is why at the end of this hallway I will introduce you to someone you have never met before and their name is carved in alter signals in a place called hallowed flannigan.
	I enjoy it with a tender sweetness, but not so sweet that my bag of goods will lacker henry. I suppose in this way I am more like the signalled paradise, but not so that my name is timbre. The red ball lingers stranger and the blue ball festers down a paradoxical nevermore tidal powers of the middern waywards pokadottle. Gowen hopes to find in this place something traced more ready to be eaten, so that when things become timber we have never been limber knees in the wheeze of sam kleez. Which is to say please, but not for my cheese, I've traced in lines of amber ash a pallid neck whose dash of leaves is come in more tamber. In the backroom she finds, however, a necklace made of hair follicles, a kind of filament for the tracing of potent magicks. I enjoy it with my leave, when you come to say pleaze.

So tell me that my pursuit of tentacle neverminn hasn't left me a damper napk in the webbern wack lack. But when we lack wack, my knack not to lapse of judgment. Hoping for a gleaner sunrise, make myself nevermaxical in the ever changing ecosystem. Frogs, which is the first thing that comes to mind, do choose to stay here but not without indictment. Never again does such a thing happen to little Gowen the maiden, however her legs are itchi, which is not to say things have gotten better in a past tense.

I enjoy my nape with the grape of sam gape whose lake was so ache that men do to leave jake. It was not fair cries the little painted boy, but his voice is drawn hollow in a mistir quiet hallow. I enjoy it with a gelatin sos, and his neck which is caught on my fishing line, it does so peel for me. I vomit, I vomit, rejection of sympathy, do not ask me why I enjoy my chocolat with Farroway, simply I do. Simply I must. Simply with gusto. So leave me now in my painted world, where things are not more distant pale.

I hope to make it clear in this way that my name, that being my worth, reputation and honour, is carved in little dents upon the alabaster shrine which is standing in the Nevalon Hallways. In this place, where things are not what they ask to be, I find myself returning to the first word. Which is not to say she is perhaps smaller than she ought to be, as I have found her rotundity rather enjoyable, with a disinfectant sauce.

Would my maiden be found in a place called hallowed flannigan?

But the Gods be vengeful, so they smite me with their thunderous clapping. Thunderous applause roars out rolls stout about the heavens and their minds whose napes are not so fine, but lacking certain ways, wonder for a man named Rosary Ronald. Who is not actually a man, but a can full of spam.


Why do we have Gods? Thought Dime as he chokes on some marijualaralan. Because Gods are not so stupid (My mistake, I meant to say gods) in matters of the state. Once the state is decided, men are kind of happy I guess.

The flies fester stranger still underneath my skin:: I itch and scratch,, I lick and spatch;;; but never wonder wonder lunder mine is more a gunder bunder.., which is to be lacking creativity,,!, not more like the festering flies, the, , festering stomach penetrations, whose nervous wonder makes my blunder hunder...;; Texan malerkau power wash but not with me; her today;; Somewhere distant, there to be... There to by,, my anxious flies... what? Oh, the texans.

Timid maxabrilliant spoke jerusalem on the seventh day of his haunting: But when the Texans had driven stat his squealing was a more lickable substance. So the high priest asked of him, as one does ask of their father, What Will Become of USSS? But not knowing the name of the ship, he had nothing to offer, because dip and do lip. Heehee!


Silence. An expanse of dark, void, long and lavender. An expanse which is itself expansive, massive, big, rather sizeable really. To tell the truth. It is a big dark space, with nothing inside of it, nothing except the groaning of men: As they melt in the acids of their own crucifixion. Deep, deep, large and eep, as the bowering sea, whose shore is not to offer me. I like to think, a time to die. But not a time for tender eye.   Which is ultimately the grounds upon which my conclusion is reached: These men which exude the acids of their follicle lifestyle, hope for timidation. Taxi me to larger fare, because those who exude will also explude. Which is to say they will melt, in the acid. Nevid makabrasions. I hope to reach a conclusion that is more fashionable, more fitting of the times. I don't expect to find it in the Nevalon Hallways, this place is dry and some ways danker than a musk hand. Here can be found dead dowrlin, whose screeching chalkboard metal hour echoes in a larger day. Their draping dower, aswell a tango, is pale and loosely defined in the echoing light sphere.
	But these spheres are many and bounce around the echoing chamber so that when one passes you by you can for a moment in front of your face make out the shape and the affect of your hands. A footstep here is worth a million, because they echo, but also weaving tenderways you'll have to watch your step.


Jerusaphett tingles my numbbons in the darkness of this actuator field. Actually, taters peeled. In the numbbons that he must. Numbon Numbon Numbbon Numbbon. Boy howdy, holler stitches. Popcorn balls is what I feel like, that's the way we'll make the real hike. Holler! Holler! But he never made it.
	Missing from my portrait is the image of a goose, stood behind me in all his majesty, he lingers stranger. After all is said and done, I hope to say hope is what I feel today. Popcorn balls is what I feel like, that's the way we'll make the dream hike. Holler, Holler, but fester stranger. I enjoy it with a seventh son, and that's what makes the dream work. Holler stranger. Son of seventh rabbit, so my second son is spared. Holler likeways.
	Actually, tenteen. Haha. No, but really. I enjoy it with a french fry sauce. I hope to make it clear in the ashes of this place but not so like a race. Whyne things are rhyme my hine. Yay! Tevid tevid, brilliant sandwich. Actually, I'll have an ice cream.


The stones are layed here in the pattern of your face. So that in this way, they are not so unlike your face. Yay! Actually, I'll have an ice cream. Goodbye sun shine, goodbye blue sky. Goodbye green past and the laster that you mask. Goodbye fields of green and the violet evergreen. Goodbye green trees and the winds of green sun rays. Goodbye green worm and my greenhorn. Goodbye sunrays and the green grass. Hello evergreen, and the nexus brain. Hello green grass and the evergreen. Hello sunrays and the evergreen. Hello evergreen and the nevergoreeeeen. Goreeeeen, gooordbye gooooreeeeen. Gooordbye blue skay, goooooordbye sun rize. Goooooordbye today, fellows. I must find a better time. So good bye last time.
	Actually, hello. I am Steven Steel and my neck. So when the curtains rise, so to do I. This is how they told me to do it, how the performance was to be. So hello, hello, and hope to be my friends. I am Steve, is what my friends do call me they do in deed. Ho ho ho, I am Santa Claus, I am father christmas. Here to bring happy joy to all the little boy. All the little girl. Ho ho ho ho ho ho ho, hoo.... Hoo hoo! I and in deed.a serpentine lover

Suddenly his back caves in at the critical moment.
SPIDERS!
SPIDERS!
nervouse tissue spiders
And all that is left in the aching basin
where his back used to be?
Spiders, nervouse tissue spiders.
And all that is left in my heart where my back used to be?
Weeping gentry, pretty be my bride, make up for my back.
MY BACK IS KILLING ME, AUGH!!
OH, MY BACK! OH!!! AUGH, OOOOH!!!

I am in pain today.
My back is killing me.
My back hurts. You see this?
Pretty be my bride. Make it up for my back is killing me
I cannot carry you to bed.
I will collapse under your weight. Pretty be my bride.
My back is killing me. Ouch! Ouch! OOOW! Spiders, spiders, nervous tissue spiders. My back is killing me.
My back will be the death of me. My back is killing me. My back hurts.
Pretty be my bride, nervous tissue spiders. OOOWIIIEEEE! My back

Aw! Shit! My back! Goddammit! OOH! My back! Pretty be my bride

Donot fall on my back
My back will cave in me
Upon my breaking spinal collumn
Tender ways my back
Massage nevereevermo back
my back! My fucking back! AWWoo!

Pain, and nervouse tissue spiders
Nervous tissue bees
Nervous bumble craw
AWOOOO, fuck, my back...

Suddenly his back caves in at the critical moment
AWOOOO! MY BACK!
Goddammit.
Fuck! My back! I can't see! I can't feel happiness anymore! My back! My back! Too much for me, my back! Oh sweet jesus! Oh sweet foreign minister! Bring me to justice these nervouse tissue spiders! This nervouse tissue bees! A! A! Love the foreign powers! My back! Love me back! Me back! Breaking the spinal connections! that which severs us the mental collumns.

Hopw my back
Suddenly his back caves in at the critical moment
AWOOOOO! MY BACK!
NO! NO! NOVOUS TISSS THE SPIDERS! NOVUS TIS! NOVUS TISS!
Suddenly the spiders
Nervous tissue spiders
Nerves of spiders
Suddenly my back
AWOOO!

Oh, shit. My back. Goddammit
AWWOOOO!!!
Fuck, my back! Goddamit. My back! My back! You are not my god? You are my back? Yes! Child! Child! Oh fuck, my back! Goddammit! You are not my god, sweet merciful christ. Who named you king? Fuck! My back, fuck my back, jesus christ, if you are so holey, fuck one in my back! AW... haha... A.. HA! HAHAH! Fucking nevid makabrasions

Suddenly his back caved in at the litical movement
Cave in the sentry temple of jod. Heelo worms, help my back now. OOOO
But his back was no avail. Suddenly my back. Fuck! My back! I can't take it anymore, why... does it go on? MMy back! no, my back! Pain is in my posture, pain my posturior. Ouch! My fucking back! AWOOOOO, oooh..

Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Prime minister comes to sermons mercies in the back. Temples in the back. Temples as of yore, temples in your back. Foreign minister comes to sermon justice and the glory in your back. In my back. In my back. Awoooooo.... my back....... Vernous Vernouse Vernouse tissue spiders. Nerves of slipping spidders. Spidders. Spidders. Spidders. Fuck! My back. Sudddenly his back caves in at the critical moment.

AwwowoowowowowoowoooooO~! Fuck, fuck, fuck! My back! No, Fuck am yadawback/oh, !dear my life!dearmylover!fuckmeintheback!templesintheback!loveofgod!loveofjesuschrist!whoisjesuschristmas!butIalswaslikenedchristmastoanevermoretidepp ool such that things are not the way

MY FUCKING BACK! MY BACK! AUGHGH!! AWOOOO! AHH! Mo, MO, NO PEACE FOR MY BACK???!! Never, never, never again does such a thing occure. My back is painted her in images of a nevid masking tide drool. Tide pool. A nevid masking tide A nevid masking timid, A never masking tide pool... A nevid making lie ppooool... A nevermroe A never again tide ppoll A nevermore tide a never more tide. A never more tide. A nevere ever more tide. A nevermore tidae. A nevermore dide pool. Nevere never never more tide pool. Never again does such a things occur never again does tide never again tipe dool tipe dool tipe dool. Never agian does such a thing occur never again does such a thing occur. Never in the first place. Never in the first place. Never in the first place. Never in the first place. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Temples in the back. Suddenly his back. Suddenly his back Suddenly my back. My back. My back. My back. My back

Here is the story: I am back. I am leaning over your posterior, therfore my back is ever gangrene. Gangrerne? Therefore my back. I suffer so forth, I suffer so forth. Pretty be my bride. Pretty be my bride? I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Pretty be my back. Pretty be my back. My back again. My back again. My back again. My back again. My back again. My back again. my back again my back again my back my bakc my back it's just my back again I cannot I cannot stand I cannot lean over you again I cannot I cannot stand it I cannot the nervou s spiderse the nervouse tissue in my back is making textures spiders ways and never agian does suc ha thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does Fuck! Fuck! Fuck ! Fuck! My back/ IT"S MY BACK! DO YOU FUCKING SEE? My back again. My back again. Ow, my back. This is what happens in between the thing which are actually empty spaces my back again. It is my back again. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. As I linger over the gentle tender screen, the bright and breaking scene, the tight and breaking screen, the tight and stabbing, the stabbing the stabbing screen, the nevermore fickle tideppoool, as I linger stranger, so do I suffer forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. And if I made myself understand, would you be there too? Because lacking in this nevid wake is my suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. I suffer for forth. Never again because such a thing occurs. I suffer so forth. Didd nevr agina does in the waking basin of this breaking tide, I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occure. My back hurts. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Do thing and their thoughts ever become more that I suffer so forth. Never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Never again does sucha thing occur. Now it is my neck, did you know that? Now it is my neck. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth.

I write beautiful poetry. I am an eighteenth century maid. I like to fuck the little dolls when they linger stranger. I like to giggle when they whinny, I like it when they whine. Yes, I like it. I like it when they make those animal noises. I like it I do. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I am a fourteenth century viking. Am I appropriate? I suffer so forth. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck no, I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I am a tenth century viking. Am I appropriate? Fuck fuck fuck no, I am an eleventh century viking. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. And yet never again does such a thing occur. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Ugh, my back is killing me. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Even my arms are getting tired, and I am a little bored. Haha! I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. The fervent passion? Never again does such a things occur. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck I suffer so forth. Fuck my back already you little peasant boy! Heehee, I like it when you whinny. I do like it when you stray. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I like it I like it I like it I do. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. Because the sun was not for you. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. My pent up whinny pow lau how my rage? Oh how my rage, I am as though the raging sun. I am a never again tidepool. I and my son, quite tent to be here now. Quite contented inteed. Whee, oh my. Ho, ho, I hold the broken remnant of a stray. I suffer so forth. I suffer I do. I suffer so forth. I like it I do. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. But never again does such a thing occur. Do you feel me? Do you feel my fucker? I suffer so forth. Do you feel me now? I suffer so forth. Do you feel me now? I suffer so forth. Do you feel me now? I suffer so forth. Do you feel me now? I suffer so forth. Do you feel me now? I suffer so forth. I like it I do. I like to touch myself in the shower it's true. I like to touch the chickens. I do? I like the leaves and the grass I do. I like to go to the park and eat grass I do. I like to swim in the creek and eat grass I do. I like the swim in the creek. I like it. I like it I do. I suffer I suffer. What? I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. It is my back. It is my aching back, oh my boy, the spinal columns. Oh my back, oh ho ho. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer I do. I suffer. They say repetition begots. The good stuff. Yes, I can feel it now. Oh. Oh. Things are getting better. I like it. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. Haha. Nevid makabrasions. I like it 
Oh, well, interuption. Never mind me sir, I am just a passing boy. I taking home my toy, and with play with it in the attic and the spiders. The attic not so unlike my back in this way, yes, in fact this way. I like it I do. I like it I do. I fuck the chik! Woah, nevid makabrasions. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. I like it I do. My brain is coming out the ears now, hope to joine the worms. Tender makabrasion

are you numb with me yet?

I find your abula on the table where you left it. The glass shines in golden rays
And the leaves outside seem almost tender
But in this way, I find myself considering the soil
For it is not as we are. Loose and more turned than it was in toil.
I hope to find among those leaflet eyes


I return to my senses and find that old bottle where you left it.
Outside, something is blowing the wind away.
There is a squirrel, and some boy with a spatula. He is making hamburgers. And this one is for you.

I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. I suffer so forth. So ways it is not correct, but to reach the swimming basin of your heart I find myself diving in a nexus blind. I hope to find in gentle ways a place for you and I. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. Just forget about it. Just leave me here where I stand. Just so that some of my words can be beautiful. Never again does such a thing occur. Just leave me here. Just leave me here. Just leave me with my words right here. Just leave me already okay boy with a spatula? Go back to making your redacted.


An old wine bottle, right here where you left it. I hope to find in this place

And this is how I suffer so forth. Tell me all your troubles dearest, hope to find a way for you. Hope to find a way for you. Hope to find a *warmer tidepool* I enjoy it with a disinfectant sauce. I enjoy so they can tell me how to do it in the future. gloss. gloss. This is what I feel today. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Never again does such a thing occur. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss Gloss Gloss Never again does such a thing occur. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Gloss. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again in the tides left by a wandering waveformation. Never again in a nevermore tidepool. Nevermore tidepool nevermore tidepool nevermore tidepool And by some people's estimation, I am fucked up. Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thought amore. Never amore monseiur, I am french gladiator today, here to make you pay! Boy, I eat your fucking spatula! Never again does such a thing occur. Never again does such a thing occur. So how can I make it stay when it has gone away? Why you can rhyme, it saves you time! Never again does such a thing. Never again does such. Never again. Never again. Never again. Never again. Gloss gloss gloss gloss gloss gloss gloss gloss gloss. Oh. 

Leave me here where you left it, I am trying to tell a story. Get out of my way, boy. I eat your fucking spatula.
And in this way the nervouse tissue spiders become more like the wandering tidepool, because they urinated in your soup like the insects that they are. They are. They are. They are, they did, and they will again. This is why I come here. This is why I am trying to warn you. If you spend to long leaning over me, you back will fucking hurt like balls it will. Like balls it will. Now curled up like balls they are. Now curled up like balls they are. They are. They are. They are, they are, they do, and they will again. This is why I come here today. This is why am trying to warn you today. This is why today. This is today. This is.... thursday. Thursday, I can work with that, he said, as the spiders with their limbs so deep. Their numbbons. Numbbons Numbbons Numbbons Numbbons. Heehee. Numbbon. Numbbon. Numboon. oops. Nummbbbon/ Numbosnd// Nummbbobon// Numbonbon/ Numbonbon/// I am a french gladiator and I am come to take your cake away. Your cake away. I am come to steal your spatual little boy child. Hyaha! Wooh, I am french gladiator pirate from Scotland now. Hoo hoo. Come, can you feel me? Can you feel me? Can you feel me? Can you feel me? Can you feel me? I am french gladiator come all ways from Scotland now. Hoo hoo. Come, can you feel me? Can you feel me? Can you feel me?


But it didn't work.


Are you numb with me yet?


Hope to spare.


An old bottle, ripened by the ages. It is better off for having been left to ferment. Hope to spare.


Nevid makabrasions.


Can you feel me? Are you numb with me? Can you feel me? Because I am not myself numb, my back hurts. Hoo hoo. Nevid makabrasions. Ouch, my back. But his back was feeling better now. I like to touch myself when the Clarius Faie is not looking. I like to touch myself with his knobby wooden rod. I like to touch myself I do. Hoo hoo! Tevid maxabrilliant. Tender hands, clasp my broken hands. Clamber likeways. Hoo hoo. I like it I do. And then I explude

I want you to know that I care about you. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. Ooh mama! Tender maxabrasions. Texan powerwash, ho down here. Get over here. Mask my nexus. Tell me again who left you in the fray. Fester stranger, do not hesitate. It is all right, I am here, and there is not anything but I, so fester stranger. Texan malerkau. Texan powerwash. Hoo baby. Oh, where was. Where was I? Tell me again who left you in the fray. It it was the texans. That's right boy. That's right. Now get over here, give mama a hug. Festering stranger. Fuck, where was I

And then the goose was purple and It layed an egg of gold. The golden egg tasted like porkchops so they turned it into cornmeal. Tender makabrasions. Once it was turned it into cornmeal they fed it to the goose who proceeded to choke on his egg. Tevid lakways. Hope to spare. Let me in let me in. Fuck, fuck. No, nevermind. Tender makabrasions. And the frilly grasses. Ho ho. No, but really. Oh, well, interruption. Tevid malerhau. Malerhau brand cereal, so eat me with a milk. No, but really. Time for supper.


I am tired of being broken. I have my outlets for when things get hairy. I am tired of

Baking in the sun

Or my ribs in a drooling puddle of macabre crimson. What is left of me when the vultures have tired their eyes away. What is left in the end, the very end, that is. My breaking rotting tingons. My numbbons. Once feeling, a mass. That is me. There, on the desert shore. That shore of eternity. What is left. What once was my heart, now it beats like an animal. Now it beats not so unlike a drum. Now it beats inside that cage so heavy on my slipping livers. That bleeding red that festers stranger. That thing is me, what once was me, now is left a bleeding pile. Bleeding not so much it becomes cauterized by the sun rays on a desert shore. That shore of eternity.

So I die here, and leave it here for you to find.

What once was left, a pile of little round ligaments. A tender lackways. Hope to eat my ligaments may they fill you with a strength. And in this way I fester stranger. My name was once a nevermore tidepool. That is to say it was carved here in a lackways. And so it will be, until the end of Dime. But for now, texas on the fore.


Uh oh, I lost my patience again
Will they throw me out the win?
The window that is
Tevid makabration

And a chamber of bones

I hope to make it clear that the meaning of life is a tender makabration
It tends to make me
It tender breaks me

Tevid lackways fester stranger
In a chamber of bones you make me feel so very sad
Tevid Tevid
My necklace purpose jangle

Nervous makabrasions
hug me in the shower
Tevid Tevid, Passways
Hark Hark. Nectar


In the corner of your alibi there is a brown door with a round gold knob. They carved this here in the purpose of nevidity. Lacking of course the natural process unto a nans tongue it lingers as though a faster green. But not considering for the bygone avenues of a longing pasture, we hope unto the nexus of time, whereun there is a nervous symptom of the collapsing evermor. You grip that cold iron gold with your empty palm and it is cold against your fragile bones. Do not wonder here, ere the passage of time makes itself perfectly vivid to You. You open the door.
	Behind there is a marble monolith, supporting with its weight the grandiosity of a thousand glass marbles, in this hall called Nexus Ponny. The windows pier gaze into a nevermore evidence, clasping straws and the frozen. But here there is nothing but a forewards neck pax, tempted by the expanding midnight dime structure. So climb the Tower if you will, and make your hands more frozen textured. On the way you find there's fire here, so clamber stat.

Nevid makabration calls. His name is pontue nex, and he hopes to find a foreground pasture. Hepp. Levid, my nane. Clasp me in your alibi. Pray to spare me, and do not falter here.

For there is not such in this place that we do not see, or hear, the passing of the bell. As it lingers past the fraughtly veiled singing structure in the backdrop of my anima, it does make me naked in the pasture here so veil. Clasped with a might, as though not to let, it suddenly slips away but not in such a hurry; I am still there when you arrive. It does not occur to me that you have left this place a masked mare. So bring shelter when you come, my stalwart.

Heaven, is described as a place of great virtue, but I find myself to prefer the aching basin.
	Here is a simple matter of the contrivance, of which Men are naught frogs in the butt, So Clamber Likeways, I clamber less.

A fervent passion marks the rotting structure, one whose alleyways are not composed of slime. We carve it with our fingers and we carve it with our grasp, a way to make his avarice more like my anima, caught here in a passion, nervously tended. Outermost of my paces I find not so lingers now, but let me see; let me see and I will clamber. I pray to spare you, may you make it from this anxious grasp. Hark, leather pasture.

My own is festered crimson, that being the name of a lasting mare, it is not. Help, help me, linger if you will but do not Become me, lest ever high. There is something on the hill. Can you see it there? It is sillhouette against the blaze and the light, but its true form is hallowed here to be. Home again, I find myself looking to the hill, but it does escape my curious. Harbour in my anima. I will fester here.
	Break me if you spare. Do not fester here. On your marble tower, find yourself growing higher, higher, do not fester here.

Levid Lackways, my friend. I will not be here when you return. Oh, do not despair. It is only a matter of my anima and me.

An hour passes, may be two.

You find yourself coming across an outcropping made of metal sheets and you clamber there tired. Your form it does collapse upon this broken pasture. From there you can see the veiled shadow of an other moon, and down across the spitting image burns the broken anima. Its mourning having night, clambers likely.

Mark here in my anima, its combing light hyphoned night in the breaking beacon of a lingered mare. Cressed by a numbing finger of the Alamark, delivered statly mastifort. Crumbling beneath the aching bark; its name a festered lack, crimb, in a basin of bleeding march. Hopefully but not soon enough, and it is so to become as though the delivered, a tip of iseberg nervous in the undulating bark. Happilly carved here in a cripe, and never leave me, my hopeful spirit mare. Crushed below the avarice, you awaken to a tide.
Hark in my name, my anima, the combed not overcome with grief; I deliver such tidings of the nervous and the ankh. Well of having, but never to be seen again by the likes of a breaking wall.

And you are nervous in the blistering tide of morning's light, so that it wakes you with a scratching, and leaves marks upon your brain. Have me, have me, loyal prop, do not become more like the long grass, or the Alaba Fields, whose names were not remembered in the aching masters palm. I like it with a passion, I wait here on the ebbing of a tide. So are you, the one at the eve of a new dusc, supposed by the masters hand to become more like a poison, a poison waited at the marking of the day. You fester here with body breaking, a tired and a useless form, its masters palm a contrivance of fate, wended but your mind, it does not fester here. Wait here for a question my loyal, wait here If you want to believe in the aching of a numbbing tide. Hopefully not yet cornered in that aching of your own innermore leftness. Fester with a nervous, crin with to bred unti the mastering of a knifes most beloved passtime. We marshall in your crimbing nam. It does not become We. He is waiting here at the burgeoning eve of a faster plateau, and hope You to find him here.
	So does this nexus grow dim of sight, as we become a wandering persons, levid in the ways of a naster plat waking. I enjoy it with the thought that things are not who you are anymore but nevermind the festering of my anima, marshall with a nervous. And climb here the tower of your animated platt.

On the border of your alibi there is a granite statue dedicated in its grandiose to the ever lengthening causeways of a marching troupe of gees and their alamark. By the canal whose overture sings true, this partly veiled structure is decorated in the posies of a nell happening to be faced again with the possibility of growth and natural greenri. Types of persons who will find themselves here do not wander far from the alamark room, but hope with their questioning to be found by the growing personage of a lacklustre passing.
	The tiled ceramia will bounces underneath the weight of you wavering trumpet. Hopefully not so tender loving, it does so fester in the visage of a passing way. You take one step here and suddenly are swallowed underneath the undulating carpet, and the monument which lingers does its gaze pass over you, and struggles your weight upon this blistering visage. Time will take its own from you, so stay here with a meandering purpose, because things can only get better for those who hope. Timbre lines in the mast, its shape is like the undulating structure.
	Falling a distant ways not so unlike your will meander, it is purposeful in such a way that you find yourself following this dingy passage to a marked lack for window square. Leprosy dynamite, it is so marked here in the wavering flowers of a larger grass field. This grass so unlike the greenri that you do find yourself wondering Pixies and the wisper faie. On the other side of the field, where the rainbow draws its forthcoming conclude, you hope to find a more distant avenue, but unlike the wispering faie it does so trump you Here. However, things can only get better for those who hope.

Drawing a pon a well of sapped visage, you summon the formality that will prop your form upon this blistering underneath. Clearing your throat in such a way that the lozenge is dislodged, you do welcome froster winds and the more gray skyline. Continue your climb because it fills you with a purpose, delicate child of the alamark, it will become more distant from those stranger shades of the Nevalon Hall. This is why I hope to spare you from the darker shades of violet.
	We fester here for the lacking of a nexus brain. Clamber with a will of fragile terracotta whose integrity is sapped underneath the weight of the waning moon and its progeny. Gentle child, you are a brave fisherman to be wandering so far from lekrammna. Those who find their will sapped are kinder to be offering you shelter in the bowering embrace of this undulating ribcage. Do not take for granted the warmth or its meaningful words.

	Because its bleeding will shelter you in a hot and furtive rain. The coolness stinging will not bypass waters of a mentioned for levering cripe, lacking the foremost poppyseed it does clamber upon the breaking visage of your hyphoning alibi. Black is its purpose in this darkening way, as the shadows of nearby heart clouds bathe this tower in a visible shade, the ways in which its breaking will is manifest here do linger in a passing way. However, there is a dim light, illuminated by its progeny, itself a more lacking passage in this day called misted fades of broken powder. Likewise to a soil dug and fertive, which is faded in the useless hours of a distant wondering for alibi and the furtive. It is a powerful thing to be made god figure of the undulating path.

Greg, whose hair is short and black and wears a t-shirt, is standing in the supermarket bulk isle waiting to fill a plastik bag with chocolate flavoured walnuts. He jiggles his nose which is full of snot and the seegunk, and then he walks up to the plastik machine. Pulling the lever, he fills himself with a pride. When he walks upon the broken passage towards a cash register, registers his cash and he does depart this broken way. On the way home Greg drives his motor vehicle which is gray like Greg and is a little bit small for a family of four. At the intersection where there is a green light, Greg makes a left turn on the right side of the road. Suddenly he is stopped by a field of grass and little balls. This grass not so unlike the posies. When he reaches the end of the road, Greg enters his home where he is greeted by an animated person.
	Tommy muffler, whose uppermost ring is made of felt and whose hands are seven-fingered, is waiting at the end of a long pointed arrow waiting to harvest milk for the break. It is a kind of milk, not altogether unlike the mother's, which is harvested from balding pax.

Greg has cancer. He is diagnosed with three months to live but dies in a car accident two weeks later.

Greg's wife and two children find themselves in a place not unlike this. You see them from behind a frosted glass window. They are making cereal for breakfast by putting it in a bowl with milk and two bananas. Criminal makabrasions, you imagine, and there is a breaking glass platt at the inaccessible visage of a sheltered way. Alone in the sheltering mast, you position yourself for larger possibilities.

Terminal castle hall of a crimson and a scarlet shades, striped in a dripping concentration; where there is positioned in the corner of the room a noble figure of sheltered tidings. This was at one time the hall of a great and a noble ruler, whose dictation did deceive, however the passing of ages caused the perpetration of a vulnerable figure shining huddled in the dripping corner of a dry and desecrated bowel. His aching posterior a symptom of the foregone conclusion that they who walk are to be unseen, it is not so unlike the greater fortress which is carved here in the shape of a perished lady.

As I feel my legs collapse
As I feel my legs collapse
As I feel
Can.. Can you taste me?
There is a marble stature here carved in the spitting image of a hurting thumb
And it does turn me on
Like you did so fond in the burgeoning callus
Happened with such intent that we are lost in the flowing spirits
As they are poured with heat and integrity down the trickling powder line
Hopefully
And hope to find in this place
Where it was not so eager drawn

You're stabbing me
You're stabbing me
Why are you stabbing me?
Do not falter in
Do not falter in the breaking way
Do not falter in this
Do not falter in me
Do not falter in me
Clab it calmly. Clab it thrust
Do not falter in me
Please do not falter in this way
Clab it now. Clab it calmly
Please do not falter in this way

A marble field is adjourned
It is climbing perpent fallible
And its nape is cold and stingent

Love is not an easy thing to articulate


May it be that this will not last forever. May it be; and may it not illuminated in the passenge likeways. Perhaps, but not so easily measured, its heavy pallette makes for a more keepable treasure. Only time will tell. And may it shortly find its end.


Lucius grips my breast hot and heavy. His touch is firm and intentional, its touching warm against the fire of my palpatating artery. Level with his eyes upon my gaze fixated at the loin, where in vague memory lingers heated feeling such pressure and unending palpatation. Bundery green tund eyes piercing, his gaze in merkid power it lazes forth upon my sweltering figure so slipping here its pasche matchstick a litten fuzz, and left perpent and fertile grasses of my innermost black shaded in this copse of silver trinkets; left so fervid my loving grasp upon his neck so tainted in my sheltering diaphragm, wheezing with a gentle grinding of my anima purp. Levid stood malan in his athlicarn gaeb, but molli no level crippenned it further to the alamark. Heave my loved, let me shelter you in my bosom and the heat of my belly


Ended in a kind of hot tear stain, my waist not moreso lacking buttons or the face of a more heated mark. And in the colder silver hall there is marked with such bloody stains, its naked form hides sheltered in the beating ribs of my animal love. Climbing higher than for I to see, its marking becomes my anima. And hark, a leather scrape.

Timid, and turning inwards, her weeping eyes so full of heat, you do climb hether on this dark and sheltered way.


He is sleeping in my belly button. And he is poking perpent fallible notions of my posterior. Haven in the leather cold, I cry more deeply when his sweating carves me the broken and the pallid form of a lossless maid whose gentry passed its given timetable. Hope to spare a more impressionable youth, because reaping in the alimony of this harbingers lain is not a fit profession for a poor and striped girl. I vomit the mushy carrot meal, and pray to my cruelty loving god; He is all knowing and wise; and on occasion, I make proper of my meal.

I suffer for the sake of this person who is sheltered in my cavernous loving gaze, its seven are painted in a licking pastoral melody which is designed to mark the coming of an alibi. He is giving me warmth in the hardships of this broken pasture. Loving him, I continue mowing my known caroline. Beth not lakkem. Suffocating in the pine tree yarn, my breast is hot and heavy.


The black charcoal is tinting my throat with toothpaste like peppermint clab. Happily thrust at the arching shadow, it enters my loin and makes not so loving dazed. My smile is like the crescent parlio, and it hopes for a more tender cress by a softer and more integral finger.
	Its finger finds its way into my body by a dark and a sheltered way. It carves a passage made of bleeding weaves towards the neural center of my shoulder blade. And there it shelters outwards a lump so difficult and madden. I vomit something like air and the punctured ribcage.


A lark is positioned here in the shape of a naked lady


At the ample corner of a more gray avenue where there is marked here a spot for nervous legs, in red paint in the shape of mellow pavement.

Garbage pasture. Round the corner perpent and flush, your tail whipping behind you as its burgeoned flush palette.
The grass yellowed like a spilt newspaper in the oxygen of daze.
A darker palette shaded in the flickering waves of its own past carol.
Behind you, the moon is a silver pink.
Like her body was.

Rounding the sandstone bend, there is a small copse of curious reeds.
They are standing towards the lavender air, and they are standing fast.
Within their sheltered body its nakedness of depth dry and spilt.
Curious to believe these things are not more loving dazed.
And marking pasture,
Its timid face pale and unfazed.
However, at the burgeoning of morning, these things are considered with a facing inwards approach.
And I stomach the mushy carrot meal.
Its taste is laced with powdered sugar, and it gives me like a nectar

Happily he stands with his tail between his legs stead and fast, and the look upon his face is guilty pleasure.
Hiding behind the rocks, I find some thing for my fingertips.
It casts me pallid and lossless perforated slim. However, I hope to find more solidly wavered.


As you climb this tower you notice on the tips of your fingers a small purple moss
Painted in the shades of a grand gold palace district
Lightly painted in the heuvering pattern of a turtle egg
In the past where more sturdily patterned
Weight a back pack and hurry fast.


Rabbit lifts his thick and beaten thigh towards the summer air. His face damp and madded, he shakes and dances like a cowgirl. Squeezing his canteen, he falters forwards his faltering gaze. Wearily he swallows the last drop of water and begins again forward, knowing there is still a long way to travel yet.



end prayluud







the taste of your mouth as i read it in prose

Aphinx
---
I am a bad person. I make people unhappy.
This is me.
Who are you?
Do you think we might get to know eachother?

Rosary corner; small, delicate; these patterns spiral; they move inwards; ever constant will they move
This carpet is woven from goat hairs. This patio brick is quarried from the far southeast.
This is how I imagine it happened

I suffocate
I'm suffocating
I cannot breathe
I cannot breathe
Puncture me
Break through to me
Puncture my throat
I need to breathe
I need a chance to breathe
I need another chance to breathe

I need another chance at life
This old one is worn to breaking
And I cannot breathe any longer


She moves with a sort of shuffle. This is how I see it, although it gives the sense that she is not so beautiful; however shuffling, I love the way she walks. She walks swaying her legs like a little elderly kite. My wind is not so breaking now; please tell me your name.
	She looks me in the eyes. Another kind of furry creature, her breath smells like pineapples. When she takes my hand

This room is adorned in little white beads decorating in their majesty; a gentle ball. A gentle dance, a tender dance, the shuffles in a swaying way. Please do not me. Please do not

Struggle for your silken shoulders. Wind that twilling silk, a foster yarn in this barrowing home; in this the dark clouds confide still. I love the warmth of your neck

"Peanuts. Peanuts"
	Heavenly, her breath is heavenly

My breathing is grating against the palpatating lung. The palpatating lung. My lung

Who are you? Your hairs are like a goat's, and that is what I think
	You smell like my mother
I'm going to have a coughing fit. I apologize. It isn't appropriate, this is why I struggle. In the corner of the room, a small golden statue of a wealthy man from plump times is

This is the times, a strange and a peppermint candy. A peppermint sucked and faded
	Where her breath was
 	It is wet and slippery

Her foot is swaying in a shuffled mango tango
	As it sways to the back, I notice the fraying whispering fraught clever tough of her little gown as it wavers in tandem
And I feel her hand touching my side

Blinking, she suddenly motions in an odd and happy
Lifeline, perpent and fallible. Clutch with a purpose to make more lovely a daze
	As it moves along this fraughtly tender way, I find it embalmed a sort of lotion


Hopefully the scarlet cape will not touch me still
But linger in the golden bower
As I look into her eyes, the way grows tighter and tilts downwards as I move along it, but I am not quite sure because at points it will open up. I pass along something wet and objects she doesn't recognize along the way, and as the way gets tighter I move further down it. And as the way tilts downwards I notice


My blankets are on the floor. It was that dream again


Larinx
---
Jocelin is painting in the courtyard. His dress is pink.
	Suddenly a little red rose peaks up its head and begins talking to him with the nectars of its love

"O sweet pray, level" The tiled ceramic is disjointed and a shambles really
"Level with me garden. Smell me as I smell you do" The tiled ceramic floor is baby blue and shines in the moonlight

This is a story about the nature of love. It begins in a tender hand and falters outwards swayingly
"O sweet pray, hyphon"
"Level with me now. Grab my shoulders and tell me how to do it. I am really trying to capture the flat affect a distant mile"

"O sweet pray, heed" Do not judge for lacking of a pipers hall
"Smell me, smell me as I know you do" Do not judge here now. Do not judge here

At the other side of the room, the painting is looking a shambles
Jocelin returns to her quarters


The curtains shift as gnomes push them aside. Gnomes in the rafters. We pay them with spanking
Presenting Pinwheel Flower by Marus Callahan
Proudly this is presented by the performing troupe of my progeny
	They shuffle on stage
	And proceed to hurt each other
	It pains me
	It pains me so much

Can she understand? When I look at this, all I see is a supermarket dogtoy
	Welcome me into your body
	Welcome me into your mind
	And do not falter in this way

	There is the slow and the eventual realization that
	Everybody I have ever met is worse off for having known me
	When you welcome me into your arms,
	you need to understand
	You are welcoming the fact that I am not enough
	For those of you who want me any other way
	For those of you who want me any other way
	Those of you who look at me,
	And see me
	But do not understand

That is everybody. Makabarolarem

On this field of starlight and black whispers, I look out and I see
The coldness of my own
The coldness of my hand
The coldness of a coin

A coin many times held in my hand, now imagine the smell of the coin if you will

I smell like cashews
Like cashews. Something like cashews.
I smell it


She gave me a chance and I failed him
I don't belong in this world


Another World
---
Rabbit licks the raspberry spoon one more time. He goes out into the damp stone mellow. Alone for seven hundred hours, he only hungers for rain. From out of the mist a figure appears. A goat, its face ripped and bloody. He takes one step toward it

It licks him in the eye. He rubs tanning lotion on his arm before mounting
They ride for seven nights,
And on the other side of the quarry they find long grass
Its tops decorated in a strange pattern like meal
So they stop for a time

	His cloak is damp and yellow. It throttles him by the neck making his hair stand on end. His ribcage is shaded and little mats of fur expose where much has been fiddled with. Breathing in the sweet scent of afternoon dust, he takes another lick of the raspberry spoon.
	He smiles in the mute. Around the air, dust and matten, it moves and sways on little propeller wings. At the far side of the quarry, often is found a reason to be without ones senses, but very much feeling it now he blinks twice and licks his lips. He is only a passing stranger

He notices a bug crawling on the ground and gets excited. Not even needing to take care, he leans down and looks closer. He takes a closer look. Drooling a little, he picks up the bug and lets it crawl around on his tongue. He swallows it alive and shivers it down his throat.

	A plump mood stomps grounded to the earth. His belly jiggles as he walks. He takes a sip of coffee


He welcomes me into his stomach. She makes me not so loving dazed. Do not leave me hon
He needs himself a lover. I found this out yesterday. I hope he will welcome me into his stomach. It does feel so lonely underneath my skin alone
My neck is bleeding
Let it sate your thirst. May it sate your hunger. March, this distant may, make more distant may.
As he walks I feel him walking, standing now, and marshal statt. I'm swimming, I'm swimming
Tossed to and about by the churning of his hunger. I'm swimming in it now
It tastes like orange juice
And crackers

Mostly I'm swimming in heat
I can't help but sweating, the moistness on my body now, it closes the distance between us now
The moistness of my body and the moistness of his hunger
It closes the distance between us

As I feel my skin
And as I feel my skin
It is peeling off my red
And underneath my red
My palpatating heart
Unending heart palpatations
Palpatating like a small animal
Palpatating like a drum

It closes the distance between us

In this place called nexus ponny the moist gale pierces like a current blowing the drapery aside and dominating through callus windows
Kevvin Pon sits with the posture and the structural integrity of a dish rag perusing a period
Where many times have been combed before, those ages of the cold and majesty

The ants carry sugars from a cavity beneath my pelvis where it meets my thigh
They carry sugars to the little toe
And make me not so loving dazed

There is blood. Everywhere beneath my skin here there is blood. I'm swimming in it now


She is with me in the ornament. A native sceneri, small jaxi pines decorated. Small masonry cottage in the dark forest, illumim pasture high. On my tongue the taste of coldness and the starkly wrought sugars of an eastern callus palisade.

	A small jaxi pine, small enough to fit inside an egg, its pasture carved in levid motions by the dedicated craftsperson
		Weeping, a little finger caressd polly markit. In its pasture gazin
		And carved here in the needles, a shape like crescent parlio, awaiting the scentual arisal of a northermore claps
		Licking my lips, licking my fingers, I touch your face. I'm touching your face

I put my finger in my ear and pull out a melody
	Taking my clarinet,

Polly russles his pouch at the side of his posture, and retrieves a letter signed Locks L'ckit.
	Walking up to the broken patio, he walks upon the crescent parlio crabs district. Poshly carvit
	He rings the doorbell
	To no reply


She is the water
He is the land
I am the sky

A brush of sage
	Flowering wind
	Circulating

It finds ground upon your crescent brow
And enters through a nervous circuit

She is the water
He is the land
I am the sky

The smell of cigarette smoke and strong coffee lingers on his stained glass shirt
In the other room where they're eating honey tomato ravioli
Exiting by highway, and the distant sound of banging metal
This blank white architecture on the side of the jell dist
Pasture gulden
And krept in namial

Pat pat
Leptin Cramial
Havmin lepus, krownam lokkli lokli passt
Hap, hap in namial tears stained golden namial passing
Fetch me ground pamlia
Fetch me ground lok namia
And fetch me
And fetch, lep harvest. Carved in the image of a horian pamlia
Lep, lep harvest. Cressent namial in the passing of the hour
Hepped likely in the cramial passage
A little corner studded namials of a guldenn hour
Pass
Passter lemia
Hoppli makkiti levis levis mo namia
Hap Hap Namia
Lokkit, scringer lokkit
Pas, pas li horun lippit livit
Hope
Hopefully more levidly cressent

I lie down gently in the rough and shallow crook of my perspirating anima.
And I take one blink and go to sleep


The ticking of the clock is starkly defined and penetrates this atmosphere of foreboding. Ornery arches bound and gallop across the foreplay making insignificant the curling of a burnt pyre in the otherwise stale air. Small violet paintings portray orchards. And in the corner of this undulating pier, a mouse bites at the ebbing frays of a nocturnal pastime. Its licking past and forvant, clasping at the bygone scriptures of lice and the ox of morenn clapps. Timbre she sets upon the broken structure namial and passes a fore glance. I place my book upon her brow and paint carven matt.
	Cyan shades
	He reciting the verse from crepter hallways, we linger strangely in the fast and faltering purview of this cramped palaceade

It's almost as though our table is built on crooked legs, or that the inference which holds us does not more lovingly cressed with its perpent lacridi
	And holding, at the foremost hour, she bears her fangs and makes do
Perhaps more levidly cressent






---
I have come to the understanding that understanding itself is the enemy
She is covered in yellow feathers that taper green near their ends
I have come to the understanding
She pauses briefly. Her breath is moist and rickety. She takes a deeply faltered breath taking care not to fall into a coughing fit

'I think that will be all' The aberdamis loksmi waves a tentacled fingers with a dismissive look of portrayal opening up into a deeper sense of pity. We do not clap for a lackluster heart, but standing do bow in our hearts. She timid shifts off viewpoint, moving with a care to not dismiss a waywards travell. She coughs gently on the fourth step, she gently trips over her left foot, and then she offstage.
	Her tail, trailing behind her, is made of little pieces of plastic, wrought by a caring hand, taking care not to obscure the beauty of form. I happened upon her trickling facade on a murky summer day, the sunlight obscured by only sheltered plastics accumulated in the foggy morning sun, so that taking care I do not consider a more thoughtful avenue. My breath I fear was hard upon this gentler castray, so that not perking here I blink twice and forget. She was not more loved by that passersby sunset than after I had spilled upon her blouse the fears and all which does within my gentle bosom. At the end of the day, we met in a little parlour; and discussing theatrisms
She looks at me with her diamond eyes, made not so precious by the understanding what lies beneath the rapturous smile
It is not made to me understood when I look upon her broken and ferment
Captured perhaps in the lazing ray of morning light, I take in mine her hand and together we make do
	At the end of this corridor, I can make out in the hazy obscurity something in the shape of a theatre rabbit
	It is wearing a little hat, tapered at the edges so that its own gaze obscured is peering into the lower pieces of my own puzzle
I clear my throat, as one does for the sake of communicating ones thoughts and feelings to an outermore world
But some days, that world is not without but only deeper in my concave hex
	She licks her sugar lips, small gloves playing at the edge of a little desert cup made of diamond glass
	Taking my hand he does depart this deeper and more sheltered way, hoping with a lasting gaze that those who would become us are not more slovenly cressent at the threshold made so boldenly carve by his purple sugar. I lick my leather lips and depart this sheltered way. Departing, but not so that I am further away

When she looks at me again, her feathers have given way and I am looking at my anima so
	She is the water,
	I am the shoreline



Lavender is recognized as one of the foremost brilliance among the performing troupe, perhaps not only because she is sleeping with the director. But I digress, her technique was not the most easily undermined thing at last night's show. In the corner of the stage, off the stage so that it is hiding in the light, I could see something that did obstruct my vigil. It was shaped like a human pancreas, and it shifted slightly in the dark beauty. I'm going now to understand what I had seen.

Brutus dresses nicely. He has a big nose, which makes it easy when things go sour. His companion, the little one named Dime, is hiding in a purple overcoat waiting for the frogs to way. However Brutus does not care for little things, and makes them only for a means to ever end this passengers hallway. His eyes are crusted in hairy leather, but he does not mind. Instead he marches towards the stage on odd curiousity having overtaken him the night before.	He is scratching the pink inside of his ear with a black talon and If it bleeds he does not notice.

At the end of the gorth hallways, where they exit to upon the scarlet curtains, he sees something which does not strike him as usual. At the very foot of the floor, where it does meet the floor kissing and slobbering, the floor has upon it something upon the floor. It is a boot, and it's owner is no place to be seen. Brutus, however, is fond of boots, and so does equip it fond. However, at that moment something sharp, large and made of iron comes careening into the wooden floorboards and would have him in pieces had he not been swift to dodge. He vomits and sniffs mucus upon seeing the Guillotine. It is not a welcome guest.
	At the end of this anxious crook, the companionship come upon a chamber lined with human teeth where they believe they have found their destination, an oddness beyond the purple veil. Brutus is the first to lick his leather lips.

What had intruded on the showstage but a little timid Poxylu. When Dime approaches it shivers darting towards way. He clicks his tongue and puts his arms to his sides standing up and posturing like that way they do in the movies. Brutus has no interest in posturing and approaches the little fuzz ball his hatred in his tears. He is drooling with his hatred or maybe it is lunchtime. Neverways, because a little blue magician steps out of the shadows (or maybe she was their before, and only wasn't noticed) and comes between the beast and his belly. She smells like blueberry taffee, or maybe it is the curtains.
	The medallion around her neck is painted silver and that is where she puts him for safe keeping. Dime will have to return without Brutus.

	His mouth and eyes are perpent follicles in the morning dew. At the corner of perception comes into focus that strange opossum named Gernn; his neck composed of spoilt ligaments. As he shambles inwards my anima perp, I make likely with my caring touch to understand his is not so loving dearly. When those eyes pierce his bosom, he must scratch his ear and make do with a blueberry jam sandwich.
	Kobold has some sort of growth on his neck, but he doesn't mind it because it does not intrude on his attemptry at the bathhouse

	Yarn cliffs overlook the wellspring on magician bluff, where for above such fertile waters Jokuin tempts his strange passion with the outstretched inwards of a neck in sour waiting. Soon to understand he is not tainted by the morning, such a man is silent in the faltering purviews of a green and blue temple district. Scratching his ear outstretched and perp, he tambers with a purpose at a sudden noise to the west.
You impart to me that it is some how beautiful, to watch the many fools bumbling around in their pursuit of enlightenment. 
Even as though the natural state of our perpetua lies in waiting
Even as though it is that we are contrived by a metric
At once strange and inconcievable
However, in some ways, no greater than a stone
Sat upon my blouse
In perpetual
	Nomad comes upon this place in curious robes, some yellow, red even. He is holding a glass jar with in it some twigs and a scorpion. However described a scorpion, its shell is made of glass and little rubies. He is holding also a sabre. And he does not impose, but rather smiles gently as the cool evening mist sways the gathered bunches of hair hanging in the front of his nose. Held together by a sallow tapestry, he licks his lips even in a smile and his throat shifts as though he is in waiting. When he comes upon my lover, his green eyes betray no more loving in them than a glass balloway tempered in the hot and dripping forge of an afternoon sunrise. As he weeps silently, he also says to me:
	'Blessed to be upon this lovely morn, and here so caringly realized an abode, this summer sunset smile.' So he is describing yarn cliffs, and I am wanting to agree with him. However, my face, not here in truth, does feel a gentle touch.
	'I had not been here before Tuesday. However, the fact in truth is a pursuit of loneliness. Join me for a spell so granular and bold' As the two men smile on another their common purpose, the travelling salesman situates some large and important luggagery to make room for his buttocks Upon the floor.
Golobar looks upon the horizon a longing in his heart. And looking so, as though in longing, he turns to his guest.
'You smell like a hotel room and it reminds me of my tender parents'
'Don't for lack of coming at the breaking of the dawn'
The silent air is loud and painted as it carries scent of pilaf stale and fluffy
	As I've made airways for my depression, it exudes a foamy cloth of smoke
	Kissing as in branchy curtains, these things move together and depart. So even that we find ourselves distant in a bath of morning light

I search desperate for a hand, but there is little respite to be found. What small cohesion is left illuminates for me the simple fact. And upon it, I find a turquoise hallway like that one which was upon me in sleeping.
	In this corridor lined with aging bones, human teeth, pancreas, some ribcage. And the floor which was looking upon a star on one end and the other, a rough and turned soil, is composed of many grasses. My hand touches the wet and grimy wall, and it retreats from my touch with a startled hurry. The smell of iron is upon the air, and earthy soil, upturned and wrought about in many a strange touch. Pale follicles upon it writhe and slime, clasping with their aching bodies a gulp of ginger morning sun. At the end of this way, and looking with my eyes, I fall upon a star.
	A heaving ribcage, with upon it many tangled hairs. I shift in my rest, leaving my tender belly exposed to the cold morning air.
	His ears, even, tainted so that they wither in the warmth. Startled by a sound, and I

For fear of stagnation, I grasp for New Orleans. With which I am not familiar, nor have I ever been

	The yellow sun illuminates some thing vast and strange, an inconcievable love and yet something I have known before. It is made of plastic and rubber, and it smells like a dog. So she puts it in her waistband so that it is out of sight, and enters the nearest terminal. She is going to New Orleans, and her heart is composed of ginger wax. Also, she smells like a dog.
	At New Orleans, Loman finds she has betrayed her intentions for the sake of masturbating in the river. The high and mighty New Orleans pines are intimidating at first glance but made of sugar from beehives. And the staple tower, overlooking all, betrays no further looking than a pastel portrait hung slaught and tender in the hall of the mayor. The mayor is a man who possesses a large nose and little rosy cheeks. Hating that stupid mayor, Loman enters the river.

Carried away to a purple bank, they find themselves worried. Not for an anxious bluff, but perhaps more lovingly crafted in the broken avenue of morning light.

Kissing the shoreline, their lips become baked in mud with little twigs so small to see and the crawdaddies a feast for supper.
	Moving on their lips, but one escapes and enters by the ear. When it reaches some place cropped and warm, it settles down and makes a nest.
They tighten the string that is holding up their baggy woolen pants and they walk upon the sand to a place by the wood, where sheltered there are lying crooked little eyeballs yellow, green, violet shades of curiosity, so that even my frozen heart is biting nibbling threads upon my heaving ribcage. I take my heart so that I am the sky and beneath me there is a copse of golden juniper and beneath them, the deer are sleeping with itchy legs and babies in the crook. The wolves come and take the deer away, and I rub my eyes sleepy like a cat. Like a cat, I almost want to play with your ginger wax heart.


	He gently places his hand against her bare belly
He gently places his hand against her thigh
And what's it gonna take for me to get real?
I can feel a thorn coming on and I just can't take it again pasture bare and livid writhing naked on a granite surface carved upon the naked hand of an arbiter
	Judgment, at the time of placing, was decree at last the most unfamiliar tone. Clasping graveyard and insect, handles with a fervent care towards pasture tower

How am I going to become real?
Pushing at the boundary line where placed there is a wall of alkaline jelly
Where placed there gently a firm touch upon my exposed cranium

My egg is shaped like turbulent glasses
Filled to the brim with liquid cobalt
And stuffed inside a living pelvis
Warm to the touch


A boy who is enamoured with the taste of his own breath is sitting on a bench as we go about our idealogues. He is warm to the touch

She is perhaps lighter than she ought to be. Placing the pads of my fingers inside her fragile bone armpits, I can almost lift her towards the sun.

She is the water,
I am the sky



---

Night is slowly creeping. The amber light from a gemstone is flickering incessantly and this door is nearly flat on its hinges to reveal a dark passage. This bench, one so carefully seen by a crooked eye not wandering but loving so that its lost upon this cold floor is found for the sake of my inquiry. Comfortable in knowing this carpet has upon it the broken soldiers of night's eve, crescent obscured nearly flat by the breaking dawn their breath is on my shoulder now. Dimly lit by this amber gemstone, a hallway bends before me.

	Do not leave this place more dangerous than it has become. When a train comes to receive you, and on you blessed by a kiss.
	From narrow minds kissing bruised minds, your hand outstretched is naked in the dawn.
	But not left satisfied a crystal facade bears upon fields of red diamond

Where left there are the small organic maggots of supper, in a time where broken on its hinges the sun will rise to greet caterpillars. Smiling, the scent of alcohol on its breath, it receives the touch of an inching lifeform in careful pursuit of morning breath. In its arms, fragile as they are knowing of my form, there is a statue, and it is composed of red jelly hardened by the sun. I wish I could say I knew its taste but I am here to rest my head upon a dirtied carpet. It has been through you, composed as it were in your body.

	Your body is not resting on this fragile felted carpet.
	Rather it is holding you, affixed to the sun your figure is scalded by hands
	Tasting, as it were, like a mexican steakhouse

I am breathing in the fractured particles of your lung. There is reason in a broken facade, turned nearly flat to appear practical, measured, and neatly composed. Your cheek however bleeds stretched to breaking and blood tastes like newspapers left but not kissed in the exposed flesh of morning. I touch it with your hand, and its appearance shifts to that of a green felted snake.


---


He arrives at the turning glass door and enters upon an architecture composed in the sight of underpaid children. It is a vast array, lining out obstacles and things grown but not severed from their roots as the hand upon God severed its fingers. They are recognized in his sight to be the works of great artists. He makes his way aligning feet with hands in pockets of velvet. Crushing powder, his toes lick the insides of gel socks.
	

			his breath smelled like bitter medicine and corn


He enters to upon a large uniform chamber. Folded at the hinges, its walls straight and narrow are lined with little white panels like those upon the facade of mourning's breath. The rubber soles of his feet are melting to upon the sunburnt patio at the root of his anthropomorphic landslide caterpillar, so bathing in the dusk with shades and a will to breathe into the corner of your eye. At the corner of this chamber, where met by a pelican's tail is fragmented yarn, he clasps with his finger fourth upon his hand, so when pulled a manger putty reveals beneath it the weight of a centennial fair. Call upon the burgeoning dusk, for lacked forth stares upon a golden statuette, placed inside a wooden chamber and lit at the orange rusted hinges of his mouthed prophetic wailings. Collapsed backwards, so that he is standing upon the floor, outstretched on all four, and then becoming lark ways does feast upon this shrewd and sullen door. Happily, my hand in tender meat, do take of breath and broken monument stares and break like mattered hunches. Perspective shrowded in the burgeoning dusk, his finger falls upon a shrewd and sallow tapestry whose tender facade does obscure a depth of history. And with sudden outburst of energy, purple lightning obscures his vision. What is left in the aftermath can be described to be a yellow outline of his exasperated form


This deep rooted uncertainty
That catches in my throat
It penetrates yellow lemonade popsicles
And ties my arteries in the shape of an oak leaf
It's a kitty cat steamer

The rivers of his body culminate in a sac
Beaten three times against a fence
And tossed into a river

As grand in scale as it is tremendously small
Pushed up against a fence
His neck pulled and thick.


	The nature of your depression, Lawrence T Fawl
	Fed up with reality, they build a tower to contain it
	Masturbate it
	Flay it by the hips 
	The nature of your depression, Lawrence T Fawl
	They're running out of fucks to give your penis.
	You disgusting little man!
	Why'd you have to give it fuck all?
	I hope you burn when they cover yours with alice acid
	Practically melting at the thighs your follicle lifestyle.
	This is what it means to be a 
	Tevid naked? In the passtime that he must've
	Groped at the forebear of his animal cardstock.
	Perhaps, but not so that it is further away.
	The nature of your depression, Lawrence T Fawl.


It is borderline cynical

People
Have more to tell you
You do not care to hear

So why
would you ever bother me?
With this
Thing you hold proper?

	
	He stuck it in his puncher
	It marks upon you many licks of the ablarn cast
	Held by the blistered, the bruised and the blooden
	Cast by markers of a nexus
	Wereupon lacking mannerism, perhaps shrewd but lastly passed out in the oxygen hammer
	Laughing whereon heaven? Laughing whereon You. Perhaps, but not so that he is further away.
	When I look at you, I see that you have given up hope
	Of ever being more?
	Than a figure upon a sea of avery acid
	I PErFECT
	every aching thumb upon this glass of her green blood
	You lose it in the twisting mire of her belly button.
	Conscious repent, however moreso gaping than upon a sea of broken glass.
	Gasping, not for air but for the lark, pasttlime in that gapping.
	Likit, likit, pray to spare, but do not keep You from this broken alibi.
	Rather suffocate, as upon her solt sheet package, lakking, likking, so that she is further away.

He made a purchase with his skin so granular and bold
It is not worth it to keep record of everything You have done in an aching master glass
She holds his lip upon the edge of a glass tapered at the rotund
(She is the water,
He is but not the water.)
I am You

When she touches him, she can feel the movement of his chest.

She is his laminate remembers he is a dead thing,
not so touched by a lark but ablarn fertilizer. Cast upon the sea
She is upon him but in spirit
She fux,
he fox.

Nobody really decided what my life was going to be like
Nobody really set up the pieces so that I would be a certain way
And yet somehow we are all defined by the structures which contrive us
Confine us an aching glass thumb
Why?
Why don't we try?
Of course,
Things could be better,
But I would rather confine myself this structure
My aching thumb blood and tissue
It feeds me, yes, yes it does
It feeds me

	When they decided what my life was going to be like
	They were thinking, "How can he benefit me?"
	They were thinking, "What would God want?"
	They were not thinking, "What would be for the best?"
	However, Nevid Makabrasions.
	For a man who would rather define than understand
	For a man who thinks God is meant to live in books and the structures of the named
	Perhaps,
	For a man who would incite chaos rather than to be defined
	For a man who thinks God has no right to life
	However,
	For a man who thinks God grants the right to life
	For of course, the natural state of living is to be dead.
	Now,
	For a God who tells me I have the right to live as I choose
	But not the right to live without him
	But not the right to be wrong
	When what is more wrong than perhaps,
	For a God who decides what men are to have in common
	For what is a God but that which men are to have in common?
	Perhaps it is not so to be such that
	Things are not the way they used to be
	And this is how God feels.
	God writes beautiful poetry so that I don't have to.
	God is my "work-bitch"
	God is my bitch. Yes, that's right. This is how I feel.

Shelter me Shelter me Shelter me from your hiny. I do not read poetry, but I still write it because I am a fascist.
A certain approach to storytelling technique that emphasizes the role of the reader over that of the author.



Tangelina is playing with a little wooden gummy bear train. The fluffy carpeted block obscured in its anima, stands fasting on a hill. Above it crooked pipes twist in and out of rainclouds, and ferry a little sperm to the oak tree. Suddenly the earth is shocken, playing vibraphonic in the abstract name. He the Nameless grisps palt and iron and breathing here the earth doth move. 
	The box scooter grinds to a halt. Tangelina, foot upon the stair, does depart this sheltered way. Shifting on the crookedness her unmade pants, and into an orchard of gems and delighte. Passing along her way a bush of tangled vine, heartfelt does upon the stageplay.

An apricot fallen from the star hangs, taught and prescient, upon a white branch sillhouette against the orange and velvet skyline. Palm trees in the distance frame, as though in constant waiting, the figure of a strange and twisted mare.
Once taking scent of the orange and parium, such in a passing mentin harsh
Biting into the flesh of a apricotted pear, haveil haveil, do not perish, do not beatri
Hopeful, star rise, star light, presccient in the collappsed idaisy
At the cliffside of hope, and framed there upon a star their eyes are watching monary Pusciouss, and hatefully touching the neck of a languid mark.
The annnullary grasp of mayflowers is Stung and tightly pulled, bitter as a grass
And growing, but not so that it is further away, a small and pink hydlin flower.


	Spring is coming, it is breaking on the hills, and in the darkening of morning a sausage made of lamb.

A hand, small and monarul, reaches parten and cold dew in sour air , glass structure, parting soil. Small crumbs of insect pot spanglet nakist and spunt upon the clapstand; Felt lodger pot licking fray crop passed baron land, fluffed and pilaf mixture but for sand; however crop, plased here nervous, nervous on the spack. The powerful scent of mudcraw passd, and milk formula strayed class upon the nerxi padd, leff, leff for nohamus. Laffid though it appears, and next to the name of harud namus clad in blue stickers. The lips of a coffee parlor languid and stiff however made sweet by a salt and dropped upon the face of an unsuspecting dawn. Red eyes perusing bruised eyes capture, although not purposefully, the shape of a moving but for lane passenger. Beneath the sand she finds herself upon a star, pale and smooth; beneath a town painted in colours of a mastifixion, claimd by the naimd of Jursy patt naimd; beneath a causeways of passages made naked in the insistence naked for to be; Hoping, Hoping, Hoping for a star. And in her name she is more beautifully passen
	Her glove peruses the neck of an elf, and elfish boor, steep and stubborn, upon the plain.
	Her neck, thick, matted, madded in the plain, reaches with Its fingers to receive the blesst milk.
The pools around her eyes drain into a puddle of Macabe annk, nak passage. The draind and fine silver between the laces of her skin illustrate a pattern wrought fearlessly by her forebears, fearlessly so that dawn might more be sevenly cressent. The luster of a page is starkly defined in a hall of broken glass cut myself on the neck of a pale and paltry peewee. She locks her gaze upon the first letter writ in a stranger tongue than hers perhaps, not so levelly crescent. Suddenly, the musk of sour milk is powerful and alcohol too.
	Her fingertips reach the first word, and its meaning is meaning itself
	Her eyes upon the passage, and it is the definition of a Tower, clad in shadow, claddin vail.
	Her tongue is reaching for the fleeting taste of a nothers finger
	Her eyes are watering in the dry way as though a nervous animal is upon the shadow of a carpet.
	Ere her patiences depleted, she takes a steady breathe
	Her palm is decorated in cold sand and
	Her artillery nake is glowing.
	Her arms are in the right place and
	Her actual nose is throwing
At the end of the first passage, she rubs two fingers together and makes do with a supposition. Clad and decorated like royalty, the roots of the oak tree breathe upon the backs of her hands.


The Rat is hiding something. He keeps darting in and out of the wine cellar when the cameras are inwardly pressid. I've seen him in the afternoon poking berries in the sand, and sometimes when I Follow where he's been I hear the dripping of opium upon the foot of marble stair. So I'm marching to the armally with my friend the raven so we can investigate the shape of purple paisleys.
	When he arrives in this place so granular and bold upon his soilt bavakin alluding to peat grass, the panels of a camp circumvent particular craving.

baby food
---

Clad in blue, Emulary places a stone where the earth is moulded in the shape of a china cup. In the lane of flowers he collects oslo perhaps, liken gum and strap, granular indents of poppyseed, acre path numb, and collects towards the stageplay. His boots moist and madde in patterns of potweed soil, so. The plastic door bends on its hinges as before the face of a naked mole powerful wind is carving minuet passtime.
He passes along little pots along his way, where decorated they are in the flowers of his masticat horn. Powder on the floor makes friction for his step. Friction, Friction, Slow Me Down. Friction Slow Me Down.
	In the corner of the granular hallway, there is a little doll weaved by motherhand and textured in the shape of a rat, its skin is motherfuzz.
	'Thank you Ema. Please, let me hold your hand.'
	'That's quite fine Loruann.'
	'Please, Ema. I insist this.'
They walk, one feet upon the floor, unto a dank unsheltered stairwell adorned in the evening's delicate watershed makeshift bartimeau. 

The time is first passage third cycle. Her breath is salty and thick, in light of breaking dusc.

She peels back a layer of skin and beneath it with a marker draws a diagram of the part loft. Her skin is thick, beady and pink, and it peels like a mouldy bananana but especially thick. At the uppermost corner she takes Ema's hand and they depart a meeker whisper. The stairs which are sturdy croftin wood, creaking beneath the weight of a marionette, are also painted purple posies. They do enter the loft.

She is four inches thick and curled up in a red blanket. Her bed of flower stems is positioned a fraction of the room away from the far wall so that it is decorating the faraway implication of a wall. The carpet is three feet long. The carpet is decorated in a maizy. Annie attends to her side in a hazy swiftness of the wind. Her skin the pads of her fingertips are cold where they meet the outside world. Her knight will warm those hands with the will of her heart. Malory, are you awake? Malory have you slept? Dearest please be still for me. The smell of fuzz is radiant inside her nostril and the foremost corner of her mind.
As her finger presses a message against the surface of a quilt, Emulary stands in the corner by a table of cups. From the sound of mixing presses chalk and wilting buds as the broken hourglass weaves. Her breathing which was steady exacerbates a field in the corner of the room, and with a sharper intake of breath she turns her head and picks a mug of ebony powder.

Rabbit is diggin for wool socks in the muddy yard. The sweat on his brow tells Dime a perpent flush palette. Clad in yellow rags, Rabbit dig for sock in the woolen of the yard. A small rodent shaped like a china cup with an exceptionally large black nose stands to come upon a rock at distant east. His nose is like a fungus pressings inwards makabrasions of his terribral voicelessly wrought.
	"Shhhhplendid madamre, lev polik en let polikarkus mau. Heap for me? Hep darling?" It is searching with the inflection of its tone in the most unfashionable chamber of princess persnickety.
	"He bronn he bronn, camel pants. Don't be so arrogant."
	"Sh! Pokun yuu"
Scampers away leaving behind a little bag of marbles each of which glow with the magic of a deceased fae.

The pine forest is decorated in paintings. The largest of which, created by an esteemed poet, depicts a mother's helping of langscrow. And a mosquito its supper, perched at the infallible precipice of longing for not. At the end of the day, when the sun is breaking purple on the surface of a moon, You'll find me waiting here at the end of the day.

There is a gummy bear stuck to her wall. It has a shell made of silicon and glycerin and has the texture of fractured earth. When Lakami sees that little thing he convulses like his lover. In the hay part naked thrown askew. Blackjackets are hanging in the corridor of moss and steel, punctuating an orderly lineup of dead insects licking bruised insects.
	Brutus enters the basement through a star. Tucked between her chest and felt
Xavier enters the basement through a cellar. Looking around himself, the matted earth spread foldways upon the distant east, and in every direction some faraway implication of a star. He comes upon a chest of stone a plays to lay within its cold and sheltered mau.

Ema screws the nip upon a bottle of ill longing and a shambles to the neck.

Beneath her feet the floor opens to upon a vast plain. She is swallowed between stained floorboards in the wooden cracks on a monorail of picturesque sunflowers. A purple syringe stains yellow pastures in the monument of evening stains upon the morn. She burps.

She could be beautiful for you now, but it would be only for the day, and you know you are not today.


The time is first passage third cycle.
She is terrible upon a star. She is terrific scratched upon a bar. She is pressing inwards makabrasions of terribral voicelessly. She is wearing fluffy shoes. She is dripping golden ooze. Also, her hair is on fire. Help her, help her, hair is on fire. She jumps in a bucket of gorgon blood. Let me suffocate. Let me breathless.

Let 'er rip.
Her gown is purple and glitters like the waving sea in the dim illumination of a backstreet clubhouse. Her nose is crafted by a rennaisance man, and her ears are hidden by draping lines of felt. When she moves the world moves as though caught in the eb and flow of her perpetuant anima. Clabbin frosty gaxer madly, the frog sings a clarinet song to the grass in a pot. Happy to be left out of the disconcert, Lorence Fol Liken grabs a metal pole and squeezes. She is winking with her long heels. Also, her breath smells like medicine. It pains me it does, but I am enjoying the writing of Sullamin Farroway.

They declared their renaissance on this day. Clever but not so that it is further away, a stealing finger catches a fleeting glimpse of the poet's swollen butthole. Clever clever. Make me chuckle, make me weep. Dress me in the garb of a townsquare dance madly. You are breathing on my hand, and it smells like pink posies. We understand one another. It pains me it does, but we understand one another.

The sun sinks below a long hill and it claims it like a badge. When I look upon that hill I see an erect nipple, one so supple and taint, one so swollen with the mother's milk. The sun upon that day, it is within me now as it is within the memory of a long hill. The heavy thick and powerful stomach of a long hill, holding that sun like a baby in her arms. Like a thorn upon my rear end, it bleeds me like a pig, it bleeds me more like a dog. Like a dog, I am almost wanting to swallow your ginger wax heart.
	He squeezes a lemon. Fearful of what's to come, her finger on his cheek presses inwards makabrasions of terribral voicelessness. In a portable toilet she brings him wine and tells him to lick it from her breast. As he cuts fault lines in her shoulder for the future of his integral defense, his teeth draw blood upon a plastik seet. And not knowing for the ways of porter people, she fearful of what's to come pulls those teeth and keeps them in a little plastik bag upon her waist at three o clock. She fluffs her lemon.
	The time is first passage third cycle. It has been fifteen minutes.

She is the water.
He is the land.
I am the sky,
Reflecting sea and shore upon the surface of a cloud.

Her vomit smells like supper to him. The length of her breast illuminates something forgotten since childhood. And broken by a fall, the glass monument is composed in the structure of a macabre townsquare dance. It is dripping sweat down the brow of a naked rat whose teeth compose symphonies in the lockholm that they must. Claimt naked sprawlt upon a door, yellow chalk illuminates bruised minds. As though with the taste of strong vinegar.

	Dripping, dripping, let it culminate in your breast
	Do not linger here long
	Your own?
	Passively meditate on the nature of passage
	Let it culminate in your breast

Longer than it took to get here, he ties a ribbon on his suitcase and takes the elevator to the roof. He is elevated as though he is a cloud. Clambering spiderlike upon the surface of a cloud, poxylu pam elevates an implication of sunshine to the furrowed brow of a mare in constant waiting for its master to illuminate the nature of passage. She continues not knowing quite how, why, if, or not.

Riding on a cloud painted in the texture of mail
Called gently by the radiating texture of a garish mall
Called upon to satiate the nature of passage
Called upon to be in a world of disbelievers
Called with the fervid pointer of a naked rodent decorated in little flowers
Called upon to cut at the fault line of an hour.
However being called upon, the purple hand of a low pasture decorates the implication of a steward on the wall.
Hopefully decorated,
Called with the naked fervor of a neck in constant waiting
Called upon to hold the empty shell of a man whose laugh is decorated in jealous flowers
Called upon but not kept at the passing of the hour.
More likely than not, life will stay the same as it is but in the way that it is always changing.

I can look out into the world and know that I am not enough, that I am not going to be enough,
That I have betrayed myself and the people around me for pretending otherwise.
I wish I was stronger. I wish I could ride my bike home without getting tired.
It's not going to be enough;
Keep on going.














The island of Ferrite is located far off the southeastern coast of mainland Prak and serves as a port for the distribution of raw resources. It is mostly inhabited by larks but a magicians' settlement on the southern port locates geographies' significance within the contrivances of folklore. Purposefully, it was established by the exceptional natives and built into a hairy nest for copse hunting sailors and the myriad locksmithees bruised on the shore. It is not a matter of great significance to suggest that although ripened by the passing years this secluded corner which makes itself the heartiest infrastructure can be observed to the naked eye a long and neglected port but for the loving care of its denizens. Who are in fact capable, as any guru is capable, in the manufacture of integrity.
	The southernmost district is primarily concerned with the changing of goods between hands and therefore finds itself most busy when sky is lighted by an earnest attempt by faithful companions. There is a shop on the far side of main street that keeps lobster shells hung in a net where they attract the well meaning spirits from further up the mountain, where kept in secret are the buried remnants of a number of respected icons composed mainly of wax and green bronze. The sculpture in the front of the shop positioned some distance in the street so that it does not disrupt the foot traffic reflects the sacred ideal that fish are to be treated equal, and hung by the inference which contrives its crooked posture it tells to passersby that some things not so sacred are composed and then kept safely in the embrace of a warm and sheltering mind. Nonetheless tradition is not so lacking in this place called Beakers Tooth; but one could be forgiven to believe that made here are the unbecoming of a patient animal's perpetual waiting. Taken in the hand of a bronze composition, a short fishing rod whose head spirals outwards similarly to the wavering and imperfect flow of water in the ocean. And it tells with a voice composed of linen cloth that made here are the inference of a life in constant waiting.

I have learned in my time that there is a great significance in human nature and nurture, these two things many people neglect to distinguish. There is a great distinction between us who have lived in our time completely other lives. There is a great commonality between us who have lived in our times this similar world. Until we begin contriving our worlds, human nature is not lost. The island is informed of many things happening outside its purview by the distribution of newspapers undertaken by a moderate fleet of floating vessels whose hold varies depending on the circumstance of a standing ohm in the middle of the women's city. She is the water and she is trickling as she touches every modicum of this rough and smooth face which is affixed on softer tidings. It is supposed to be an effigy however makes its reputation and so it replaces old truths in quite an organic way. These things do not make their way across the ocean, these things do not make their way across a foreign tongue, these things however faithful are replaced in their perpetration by a more semantic distillation of what the people are wanting to hear.
	The newspapers are distributed in shops, in store windows, on the beach. Essentially the newspapers are distributed far and wide so that many are to hear and others through word of mouth, but not faltering here it must be insisted with great clarity that these things are made more desirable for their insistence to be.
	I see somebody pass me playing music loudly. Do I envy him his free spirit or do I recognize he has little to be envied? Further up the mountain situated on a flat crop of land the residential district is there such that it is easier to go to market than it is to return home.

There are vast fields of purple oat, growing where the mountain is shading from fleets of dry rain and the rusted character of a gale. There are heads oblong and mock soft illumin inspiration but to pass a forlorn pillar growing here there are shoots segmented at the inch. Growing here there are tangles of yellow vine and there are red pulsating modules spotted greenly but shaded from the rain. Where the fence is planted in the higher ground where softly there is talk of reformation there is growing there a little red hydlin flower. Where growing there in its shade is a home of microscopic rabbits. Naturally pretending to be composed of the earth they making their livelihood steadily by the naked burrow full of hopskins to bursting. They are making there where planted by the storm is the upright cylindrical palette of moss. Moreso overgrowing to the east, at the face of a cliff, overlooking the constant spiralling waveformations of a dock in constant waiting.
Ill as though in waiting the bushels of horasc outline above the torso of a settlement's figure. They are harvested when the moon is searing golden in the hour of ill loss. Planted as though in waiting for a hand. The bitter taste of green flower, carried on the wind, has attracted in the recent months a band of lark possums who are digging at the border of a plain. Scion of the moon cut stark and stealing glances at the nevid figurine of a possy caught and waiting. Silly though it is to wait, many found themselves wishing more gentle tidings on the rough and beaden shore. 

[Why have you disguised yourself as a poet?
Why are you hiding between lines
Between verses and these vignettes
Why have you disguised yourself as a poet?
The nature of your depression, Lawrence T. Fawl.
At this point he's just rubbing his dick so that he knows he can still feel ecstasy]


I enter the shop this twisty scarlet establishment on main street so regular it is in its compositions. The first thing I notice as I enter this looming shop is the air of perpetua diggin slightly crooked beds in the segmented face of a hill, the hill my anima perp so luscious is it in waiting for the touch of music. The smell of flowers but not of dirt, the scent of rosary donald, but carved in upperleft corner of my skull my scalpus buried deeper than the most stealing and integral finger coated in lemon gelly. It is making me smell the mondevieu harpp, and I am inclined to the touch of fur against the warmness of my veins. So cold again, I rub my skin taking care not to rub in the eyes of my contemporaries. However never ever faltering here I do enter the establishment where lined there up in waiting a series of glass carvings making curious to wait.
	I am seeking something that may curious cure my anima, and I am
	Seekin in the gall nexus barroway.
It's that song again. Now loudly thred betwixt my anima perpel, and pulling now so thought and gentle. It's that song again, and it has been seven days or more. Now I touch my coroner to the side of my face and trace but tender the image of a small but stealing rat. It's that song again.
I am dancin casual through the isles of glass sea and I am thinkin to myself However ditzy spoken at the corner of a dawn; and I am tinkin Lakalaka but not lackin I am threadin to the nexus coroner of my mind. What did I come here for? There is a particular glass sculpture that caught my fancy in the eyes of little Bell, but now I'm wunderin perpel velvet is the nexus coroner of the dawn. Pulled and tightly, I bring my senses but at the aisle of broken glass; I'll have to keep looking. Some time in between the things we do and the words we say, I see a box and it catches my attention because it is made of human ligaments.
	I could barely make this work when I was a teenager; I could barely hook a lark when I was a teenager, taughtly pulled and prescient against dawn's smooth surface. But I could not tell you how this happened You my anima perp if I was his pretty spectacles. I do not think, but making room for both of us My hook is in your sinker now. So perhaps the indigo pond of endlessly spiralling staircases, or perhaps a naked rabbit at the threshold of a dawn. I do not think I do not think, but Time is in my way now. Throw it to the shore so that the tide will swallow it back into the moon and men will learn to see the sun for what it is. A pale imitation.

"No; no, my head is not a scary place to visit. It is just like any other place. Why would you think that?
It has wooden chimes and granite bells and sometimes it elucidates a field of yellow sticks."

[Can't you see this? Can't you see that God can take us no further?
We have held onto our father's arm for so long
It's time to let go.]

Having selected a box full of thumbs, I make my way over to the paentri foel where positioned there are a station of larks' tongues. Greeted by a necked grimace? And undressing delicate fingers made staunchly cressed in purple horseradish. 

He looks at me eyes glazed over in the flesh surface plasenta clasps estly claps of a necked mare neck pulled and thick in the burgeoning dawn on the horison. He looks at me looks at me shelter my form, and make my necked eyes not so gonagan than. What can I say to the withering molecule?
	"There is no doubt in my mind, love this song. Freaky lovit."
	"He smiles and my face is not so far gone."
	"I heard this song once on the beach, my naked body pulled and thick on the sandy flesh surface of clay and tide eventide mudcrabshell"
	"Heh heh, ye I luv this song. Caretu danse miladd"
	"Working now but my nek is pullt and thik"
So I exit to upon a field of a purpel flowers and the muskitoh.
Yellow play-dough is sinkholed here where it makes salty vistages of the passing busboy. Needless to say it is to clap, and sheltered in implications of a bygone nexus form a singular rabbit stealing though it be lay sick and melting on a stone. Smiles at me, but its smiles is a passing thing. I make my way to the patio of a meir where stationed there are the golden larx in waiting for a tongue. Will not be my tongue, but they are waiting for a finger.
	I put my groceries in the kitchen sink and place a needle on a stand. Where positioned there are the golden larks in waiting, and perhaps with a more gentle and integral cresst plased there are the dove. So I make my way over to the smithees table and begin work upon a stone. However work it is called, I am rather enjoying to explore the writings of Sullamin Farroway. My hand as though it is a book, is fast shut by the implication of a darker stain on this glass surface. I lik my fingers, taking care to lik in the tongues of my ancestores.

A biker. Blue shirt. Passes me on my bike. He has two bottles positioned at his rear, one filled up with his own dehydrated piss, the other, blueberry gatorade. Now a swarm of red-shirted bikers are approaching from the front. One has a pink shirt. Gotta go now, have a nice day. Why are all these motherfuckers so insensitive?

Why would I write about the yellow triangles of earth that are dressing the beach in a fragmented lifestyle? Time dilates inwards when I create; I did not spend my life creating, I only spent my life away. It is the purpose of life to be spent, we know this, and so I sit with you decorating my vagina not telling you how I think why how if or not. A grain of pojui represents and holds within its imperfect diameter conditions upon which having met are never less so passit left again. Helping the stone, I accept with my hand the texture of an ornate granite statue so cold it was in waiting so bold it was to me. Not knowing how, why, if ornotry decorates the stageplay most vast. The sand is purple and damp. The sand is carved in nevid structures of an invisible perhaps not waiting for a hand by again. Testing the waters, I climb upon a rock. Upon not so dressed in a robe, and coated in the colony of moss. I blow my whistle, and in response the sea itself with a wave and a holler it does touch the sky and, merging so that it is upon the sky, departs a sheltered way. Blowing, blowing, but not so that I am further away, I make my way back home. However not homely it is described, I have kept here in a leather sac the shape and the texture of a granite statue. It is tempting me with its raw energy and I am wanting to away again. However not, however sheltered in my way I have chosen once again that by him we are gonagan. captured in a net the whale is inclined to rest. I suffocate my hand with a pillow, and than I please. Not so says the mammal, cos by him we art goni.
	Heaven speaks your name, heaven streaks of amber lights blossom in my wool, a shelter of golden light and pulled baby seashell. A pillow of light is a pillow in the way that it provides. Green hints of paper mache sneak behind my streaks of golden light, pillowing me from impact on a gray stone. The sea it is a violet, and sheltered in its ribcage beats a drum of leather straps. Gorgon, show me the way. Gorgon show me the way.
	Jack provides for Molly in the lockholm that he must. Jack Provides For molly in the Lockholm that she must.
Posh lines of velvet sneak their way from behind a granite statue and show me in the eyes. It is proudly decorated the fields of a bygone mastifixion, masticated masticated masticate. 
	The smell of horse feed wakes me from a barn, I do not remember call upon a barn however now here that I must. It is so lonely inside a barn, and I am almost wanting to construct a wax heart. However woken now I am, However stroken now I plan to leave this place. It is not in mourning highways that I leave this place. Clap, clap, clap, clap, but not so that he is further away.
	Opening my eyes but the art is darker than my eyelids shut. Pasture, trough, canal. Pasture, trough, canal. Now I wander if were passing. Now I wander not.
	The purple flower spirals outwards petals connected at the base by a collection of little seeds. Necessarily mine. When cut at the stem, the blood of the flower can be used to create an aphrodisiac.
	Fields of golden lilac blossom in a stream. The yellow fish navigates jagged rocks strewn mossy on the seabed. Blooming mossy on the tributary, its head in the form of santa grape. Perilled tbe on golden tides, its body rather pale in comparison gyrates as the hand upon God gyrates its wrist.
	In the back foyer his eyes servicing me a ne'erlorn glance packaged their buttery urine in a plastik sheet of bleeding tongues. Maybe if I understood I could leave this place more sacred than it has become.
	The painter is a lark. The painter is a faux planet.
My eyes however stretched over in the flesurfice plastik move me on a bed of broken flower stems not questioning the breaking on the horison possible implication of a long hill. 
	What purpose does it serve when upon its sullen breast stapled in the lapel a flower composed of leaf stems? And opening to a hole. And opening to upon a chamber, its faltered heartbeat more stable than it was before.
	The crystalline stream, holding in its mouth rubies and a tourmaline, is carrying the yellow fish to a softer place for sleeping.

On any side of me, I could look and see that I have become elsewhere.

The next morning in town I stop at a shopfront slinging milky water and bitter water and other sorts of unhydrating water. Lick lick lick, that's good water methinks, methinks I do. When I have my water I am walking down the waterboard. The waterboard seafront, so that it miles from the sea is holding back and keeping a lick lick lick of the tight sea air. It smells most like butter and popcorn. It smells most like gummy bears.
	On the dark chocolate platform, there is a dying rat playing the xylophone. It is introducing me to the box of saltwater taffees.
Further down the waterboard, where my neck is pulled and thick, dressed in delicate roses is a glass of looking pale.
	I am inclined to the green curtains behind them a chamber of dark ill. There are little statues on a table, perhaps from lonli, but sticking here I come on a cloth and leaving in my body. I slide down a sheltered diaphragm, and the way gets tighter as I move further along it, but I almost can't tell because something fuzzy is getting in my way I don't I can't I haven't before and now I search a granite floor the floor the floor it hides a mess clapped gently in the ferlinn vest. The blue shirt moves when I bend my spine.

She plays music with her fingers on a wooden bodied instrument. She is playing music in the poxylu hallways. 

"I know that education can be dangerous because once we know something we are inclined to ignore the truth"

My chair is the ground and my butt is studded leather. Have you seen my butt? I'm trying to get a good view.
There are people jumping up around me with their stationary heads and I am trying to get a good view.
The Poxylu hall reverberates with the sound of acoustics and the acoustyx.
I am trying to get a better view.

I bump into his leather body and he spills a glance on me.
It's him, the same person I met at the record store.

Turning on a spindle my forehead is struck with the possibility of music.
We recognize one another we care to dance.
Spilling on the ballroom soil, we are in each other's arms.


The cushion in my head is painted red. The cushion in my head is fluffed by music sometimes. Sometimes it is reinvigorated by music. Other times, my hands severed at the wrist can reach but will not feel the touch of a leather bench.
	Salin Pouches crafts leather benchs and a variety of discs at the storefront of the shadowed east. He intentionally carves his insignia on the leg, so that when one is in the possession of a foreign mare there can be no question. Once, in the late summer, I found a bench of his washed up on the shore. His carving had been rubbed off by the stroking ocean water, and so I claimed it for my own.

You know, there is a story behind the bench you are sitting on. His lips are marbled wine. His posture, not insinuating erection, is similar to my old cat who is dead now for a couple of years. I have another corn cracker.
	The taste of rain. The sanguine livid flaps of leather obsure, not jealous, a cabinet used for storing golden statues. Jealously I reach another mile for a golden statued lip, and full to the brim with liquid cobalt I am feeling rather contented now. I fickle and warp, I burp. My eyelids are made out of spider silk. My fingernails are made out of ruby gemstones, and they turn the skin of my neck like a plow turns a field. I am feeling rather contented now. On the other side of the corner, where it meets the potted houseplant, there is sleeping a bug there on the other side of the corner.
		It is a spiny backed poker. It is helping me deal with the oncoming pain.
	It is helping me come to terms with the fact that
	Tangled up orange peels are insufficient fertilizer
	Groping for sun kissed turf is not a sustainable living
	And things are not the way they used to be.


Bunny is wearing a "buijot," it is a kind of cloth dressing that hangs around the shoulders and comes to meet itself on either side of the conjoined ankles. She is holding back a cough while I try to take a picture. Her feet are moving though I told them to stay still, her feet are moving like caterpillars.
	Kobold is wearing a sash around his penis. It declares him king of the mountain, however the mountain is so far from here it is such a rough and granite thing in truth. One step from the floor he stands, and his chest is covered in steps of mangled felt.
	Laxative is standing opposite the floor, and her chest is exposed to reveal the namesake of her ancestors. When her small and tightly bound feet meet the floor, by that point they are falling on the carpet and receive them it does with not a care for kinder buttons. Her feet were bound last saturday, and now they look like bound feet.
		What it means to bind the foot is that it is composing kinder leaves and ribboned by a leather strap. Almost like a birthday present.
A cardboard box full with crooked twigs and small branches is significant to this scene, for the ways in which it composes that what happens next.


I have no money, I have no food, I have no shelter. I have the heat of the sun bearing down upon me, and I have the coldness of a granite shelf to hold me. I have the softness of the sand which is bleeding away down alleyways of misjointed plates. I have what I can hold in my hands at any given moment. I have the shelter of a wooden pole that was designed to remove me. When the many eyed gray poksi beast comes to retrieve me, I will have and I will have to depart this crooked plane my hands severed at the wrist there is nothing left to hold. Unless, of course, I hold it in my mouth.
	The metal framework of the city is built, and built perpetual, by my severed hands.
The red curtains are softening my blow.
I will have to search for a less obstructed point of view.
Wanted I to be violent, I would have stayed in the Nevalon hall.


A glass ball is stuck in his throat. I am going to help him dislodge it, but he is going to have to be careful it does not enter his lung. My clenched fist is a blunt object. I am helping him cope with the ongoing pain.
	He ejaculates the grass in his throat and it lands on the glass floor quickly crawling away.

The first pillar, three feet in width, reaching several bodies of mine until it meets the ceiling in such a way that it is effortlessly held in a serpent's breath. With stone carved leaves, harvested from the distant east, where the water is bleeding, and my own eyes are lost. It is segmented in three ways, once directly vertical and twice more at opposing angles.
	The second pillar, covered in a sheet, becomes larger near the bottom but only in its signature carving.
The third pillar is higher than the rest, and is segmented at the inch.

Breathe, Breathe. Breath. You animal, show me what it looks like to be living.

The abyssinian chamber is closed to the outside on all sides. There are three men sitting distant from one another touching one another at the shoulders. There is scarcely room in here for another. They are not holding hands but holding guns. They are the each of them wearing glasses, one round glasses, (like me,) one square glasses, one no glasses. The leader is wearing a business tie that is dyed stink red and square glasses. They are really more rectangular, really, but I am getting ahead of myself. Running out ahead of myself, where visible to me are the most perfect aspects of a visible scene. Ha, haha. I am surrounded by yellow grass, this grass is not perished but will be harvested for its richest assortment of colours when the weather is so beautiful one cannot forget. Do not let me forget I am in this place now. The leader of the men is sitting adjacent or rather triangularly really to the man whose name is a can of hygiene plans. We call him spam, but not for lack of better tidings. There is of course another man here, but we will not call him now. The leader in this triangle does not speak but spam speaks next. What he says is not significant, but the guns are become two in the hand of this man and another is not here. Not significant really. Leader blinks and pulls a spade of card. It cannot be seen for there is not of the outside world here, but suffice to say it is a spade of card. When an ambidextrous forefinger has risen to within the chamber, the weather suddenly clouded begins to vibrate with the intensity of a schoolbus falling from a hill.
	Ten times they each are shot and another takes hold of the finger and is pulled to safety. His name once absent is given in the form of three beige sticks, each longer slightly than the last, and he is sent to monitor the wall on the outside of everything. When he arrives in that place, his legs are melted and used to reinforce the wall. You must understand, these things are not so distant in the manufacture of integrity.

Whatever happened to his head, it can be heard sometimes on the path leading from the castle to the motel.

The man you met at the record store is making wine glasses in the other room. You would care to help, but you know little of these things.

In the diamond yellow chamber which is circular at the hips, blood streaks of cranberry apple juice accurately frame the necessary amputation of a document's header.
There is a window in the distance, too faraway to mean anything to those seeking respite, but it does in fact mean that the people here however ungrateful are given the opportunity to breathe.
There are two men sitting in wooden chairs. The backs of their chairs are twisted inwards like the spiderly spiralling amputee heads of a karn. The nexus synth bald is making tea on the wood fire stove. There is one man one of them whose teeth are exposed to the stale morning light, and the reject that light upon the air so that it is gleaming in his eye like the sparking shell of a most timid poxylu's mother. He is holding a sizeable document which is clamped between two sides of a nava hide. Once more, the dim orange light is illuminating his face from short distance away, held in his mouth like a spider holds your finger. Only a minuet later the document is burning at the hinges, and suddenly its ashen facade can no longer bear to muster the integrity needed to hold his attention. He puts it in a cabinet beneath his chest, where it is tucked behind his liver.
The other man eats apple and orange peels while he waits for the train to come and take him away, away to somewhere the air brushes against his windswept lapel.

When he arrives in this place he finds it is no welcoming to him as it had been before, and I am feeling rather contented now. If only to know that that which was composed has been disassembled and can now be used for spare.

I need some spare wine. I am rather needing the taste of your breast. Your arm were it to receive me would find its place snugly fitted between two sides of my kidneys.

Orange slices are my least favorite for the ways they compose a symphony of arousing scents however catching you now I must insist you try it.

You find this man rather fashionable and rather fitting to your tastes. Now your leather coated stomach can soften up a little.

The bonewhite chamber; lined with spots of black grime it is in truth, lined with beige limestone. There are many places here from without you can see in, however to the four men living inside it there is no place like home. They are small enough to fit inside the possibility that every day they wake up and find in a new day opportunity to spill upon new avenues and breathe in the air exhumed from the microscopic porous structure of a long hill. The black grime they call it posul stone, and it is harvested and it makes a fine soup. It is fine with wine. Their government is the decree of the undulating wind it is exhumed from a long hill, and so no one of them is given authority over the others and so no one of them is given authority of a long hill, and no four of them all given authority over a long hill even, because the long hill when it tastes them reassures that that which has been ill disposed is reassembled and constructed in the shape of a long hill.
	Once a pink ribbon came to visit them, and it shrouded their lives in purple shadow for seven days before finally it blew away taking one of them along for a fly. And for a waving ride and for I can't I couldn't no man could hold on so much longer, but really he did admirably. Although the fall killed him, his bones are used in the manufacture of integrity.

When he comes out of the walnut chamber, you steaming in a kettle receive him with a warm embrace. Here is what we will do, he says. Moments later both men are naked and sleeping in the basement.


The time is second passage fifth cycle. My eyelids are made of wet newspaper. My cheeks are sewn out of rubber. My ears are wearing pink muffs. My body is
	The other side of the bed is empty and a shambles really. I'm calling it a bed again I must have been a narcissist. Really it is more of a couple blankets lying on the floor. However the floor is so cold, and a bed of questionable integrity is enough to hold me from facing the inevitibility that things are not the way they used to be.
	When the succor of my lips have faded I build myself a crutch out of wrinked up cats and ascend the basement cardoroy. When I come into the kitchen, when I come into the living room, I hear him in the bathroom.


Bunny is holding a sabre. It is not a real sabre, she is much too young for that. Bunny is holding a diamond sabre and she ascends to the place where ferrets are waiting.
	When she takes off her buijot at the end of the day, she takes a moment to reflect with Ann on the myriad possibilities that adorn the darkened stageplay.
	"And what was the leather covered stick meant to represent?"
	"I don't know what you mean. By any chance do you mean the hat you were wearing? It was most like a hat, what it represents most like a hat."
	"Well it did not fit you know"
	"I think you are being unreasonable dear, you will not need to do this thing again."
	"Well I did not appreciate it"


The water where it meets the mossy pier is greedy enough to ask for sand. When it is not fed it becomes unreasonable in such a way that is well unreasonable really, I mean really.
	And a pillow makes its case to be set at the side of her chair so that her favourite rabbit can watch her eat cake.

Many times over two men find themselves a pillar, two more things a pillar, the pier is needing to be raised some distance from the water. Three pillars. This is what I am to you. I am three pillars. And I am raising you some distance from the water, but I am still just three pillars.


When the man enters the cave his overalls are made of leather. The sky is beaming black above a plateau of wavering cheatgrass patterns. The sound of a stream is obscured by the sound of insects.
	When the mud enters the spaces between his fingers it is casual.
Three years ago this cave was dug by a large insect. Its shell will be worth a fortune should it be found.
	His eyes are protected by a kind of shell. It is made of hardened glycerin, and it is shielding him from obscurity. In the past his leg was enough to afford it, however shrouded in darkness and coldness there is no higher gain for men such as he is. The cavern of his mouth is clear to me. Minty fresh even, and standing on the precipice between illness and longing my fingers are inclined to find footing in the cropped and sheltered illness of his eyebrows. His entire body is coated in grease, black grease that is, and a cold cup centers around the temple of his vice. I am creaming cookies when he comes to receive them. Woven patterns of crimson yarn are accentuating the purloin nake of his overalls.

	At the end of the obrinodd hallway the man falls down a shaft of seven inches and lands on his eye. Pressing inwards to his nevid scalpus, poshly carved in ligaments bold on the side of a metal pole. Where every side is adjacent to its sister, so that the most bold perpent flush palette is that which is on soft pink diamond. Granite pillars are not carving here to wait.
	He wanders down a shaft sustained in its integrity by a system of wooden planks pressing inwards to the soft and musky soil. There are a variety of moss and the liken growing in a shaft, however he does not care for things he cannot see. He continues, contorting his body like a contortionist who is inclined to contort, contorting his... he makes his body way a down the passage. His legs are reaching so that his knees are beating his heart, and his arms are moving like a windmill caught in the necessary task of moving down a shaft. His pinky toe does most of the work, as the rest of his body is insisting to be caught a mighty glass of pink. The way gets wider as he gets futher along it, until he can move his limbs freely at which point, he nearly falls. But catching himself, he begins a down a ladder.
	In the temple chamber of granite he lights a fire and worshipping the fire a glimpse of metal poles. Clapped necessarily close together, so that even the fire can see them with its lacking sense of illness. Climbing the air the fire is upon the ceiling. Four times in a row, and the fifth it trips over itself and falls upon his face. His face is coated in grease, it is coated in black grease.

Strawberry rock candy is big enough to fit in a wagon. It is lining up the entrance of an animal longing. On the other side of the threshold, charcoal paintings are the walls. Angular patterns of grass above, winding creeks of ruby and sapphire below.

At the bottom of the ravine carved out of refuse from the lake, spider monkeys collect diamonds in the creek and use them to create neck adornments. Hanging at the neck, a spider monkey appreciates the coldness and the warmth of a precious stone. In the eyes of a spider monkey, the glimmering face of a stone not unlike the eyes.
	In one of the many caverns here carved out inside the granite and the gravel a family of spider monkeys are eating insects caught in the creek. Every morning they are caught, and not cooked they are arranged in an assortment of shapes so that they are made a little more fashionable for their insistence to be elsewhere. It is not likely a spider monkey frees, thrashing in the lake, a cold and distraught insect.

Bunny is playing a game of dolls with the misaligned oakboards. Where somewhere they are upwards in her nose, king of dolls reigns supreme. Below the taunting floorboard, a conglomerate of yellow dolls are planning a revolution under the nose of the aristocracy.
	'Livid thrashit, clamberet likkly in the pastarn gave'
	'Hornet's nest monary vest for likkly pasturred nebberlid'
	'Ten more times down through this passage'

He is wearing triangular green flaps above his leather briefcase, and his body I see is framing nekked masterbrations of the forlorn garb. When I blink, I can feel my eyelids are made of spider silk. Perhaps, but not so likely, he is waiting there at the end of the oblong hallways. Twisting though they be, I may well join him for supper. Just for supper 'sup. Clabbit calm.
	His makeup is accentuating the features of his face so that he rotting is a livid pink. My eyelids barely flutter to engulf his broad and neck form. My cheeks dressed in dandelion pink, I suppose not happen here.

The surface of his fingers are warm to his touch and endear me to the scent of dandelion pink. When he leaves me now, I will be left waiting in the cold but sheltered perview of a moorish neck abada hal.

The obelisk of the underground lake is an unfettered demonstration of what can be done by the stroking of seawater. Distance away though it be, the scent of the sea is strong on the tide of an underground palace district. And that is how soft his cheeks are. I tell you that is how.

The passage of time is visceral it is visceral I can feel it digging its teeth into my scalp
He takes out his penis and plays it like a horn he plays it more like a clarinet, breaking it at the reed
I can feel my lungs my lungs they are visceral they are visceral

It is not that I am getting old, it is just that I have been working on my comic for more than a year and a half and I have no sense of that time. Everything that happened is there it is recorded down it is accounted for, I feel everything in an instant and it never leaves me. Time is slipping away from me the passage of time is visceral.

His mouth is visceral it is visceral I cannot feel the warmth of his breath but the heat of his spit as his teet enter my neck it is visceral. As his teet enter my shoulder he takes away a part of me and I am inside of him now. I think so. I think it is real.
	The passage of time is marked by little popsicle sticks stuck up in the sand along the far distance of this winding traveller road as it bends behind a hill my lung is in your pavement now. There are dots of color expanding in my rear view, I think I may have taken too much viceryn into my bloodstream. I clap my lips together and lean back in my seat as sleep it does take liberty to have its fingers on my cheeks. Too much vyscerim in the bloodshot they stray, too much noodle in the hopscotch they say.

Pastel ornaments
Lime tortilla
Bloody welt
Purple zit
Pine needles.

And oak leaves decorate
Pastel ornaments in her foreplay
We are weaving a nexus hole in the fabric of thoughtspace
Come one come all again.

A firepit burned the bodies, the bodies of men and their animals perpent they are animals. My eye is almost glazed over but to bear witness to the yellow city which is vast to the horizon and captures the hue of the sun on the patterns of its stone. 


The chandelier is covered in moongrass fountains
Shooting stocks of purple hide adjourned temporarily at the side of a most most pact present for the illuminated sphere of ephemeral lust. The faceless statue which is protecting the honorary bedside, protecting at its mists the undulating pier of larry hair. Perhaps the corner is turning at a ninety degree angle to face a line of pillars not placed there by an uncaring architect. The corner is rounded at its upper angle, and the head of a dolphin seals at the marrow plate.
	The streets of kolaria are aligned with the patterns of the stars as they make carven on a lake. Shoots of cheatgrass and sparrow flock north in the pattern of a hen. Captured in his perpetual gaze they are made with the nectar of a bee, wasp, stung prescient and flush against the pale blue walls of the glass bath naked. Out the stomach punctuated by a loud flushing hiss clad presently dawning presently naked horsie pie. Clapp for lakking part clapps for himselff. Percolated sugard pie powdered by a necked palace part. Happily though it is made in the sinking pupil of his dear, I claimt it with my necked fingers so happily and thrush. Perscen clad in dark robe stealing moonlight on the shine of glad altar bear brethren on the cold unsheltered stone of a pale skin coloured as though ripped from the arm of God, and undulating naked on the sandstone my neck is in his fingers now. The guillotine was not flush with lust but instead, in my longing, did percolate this nevid capture on the ever expanding wall cliff face of a dynamo perpent and flushed. Its red cheeks were bleeding waterfalls feeding fertile foliage on the ground beneath. Happy uplifted to be here upon the wall, gakin madly purple flowers ever piercing the faraway implication of a long hill. My naked fingers found refuge on her warm and sheltering breast. As the hills and the mountains make shelter for the rain, so too did I find myself stuck here long beneath the wooden structure monolith of a dry mouth. The nose it was waiting.

The road that passes along here is quiet in the evening and I perch to hear the calls of animals flushed in my bowel. The clapping on the faraway distant call and flap of a long hill. I hold my breath, taking care to hold ancestors to my breast.

Her eye was his eyes distant although vague. Not wandering far from the knowing embrace of embryo, pasture larkfast grips his almighty stone. The gorgon named Kobold is treated with the warmth of my anima perp. Once inside my thigh, I make arrangements for her decapitation. My forehead and by extension the eye of god is severing my umbilical as the arms of lilith severed at the waist. It was clever to my allseeing eye, however laying down to sleep I wander now God's hand is on my forehead now. Vomit in my utero or I will make God not so loving dazed and sprawling thighs outstretched from the loin a gift of life. Make him not loving see my uteral anima perp. I found it clever in the high and immortal purview of a long hill.
	At the top of the tightly wound spiral staircase there is a chamber lined with purple fingernails. They are human fingernails, and they are not painted but come from an individual of the highest mount parade. They lick their fingernails, and the digestive slime is embedded in the roots. I should hope you will understand then that this chamber is the most important chamber of princess pollical. He comes here, naked below the chest, and he writes in his diary which is in truth the animated adventures of a gingerale snake name pall. His diary is bound in avel hide and studs of pink thistle root. Those studs decorate his yard as he ganders out towards the dominating mountain peak. It is standing in the distance, and it is inquiring in the most unfashionable chamber of my vagina. Bound tightly to a wooden pole, orange sparrows ascend.
	A plot of soil is situated on the border between lust and perpetual longing. Its eyes the eyes of a potato, and naked bowls of fraught stuff. Climbing the cliffside will do no good if you are to find yourself in this place called flannigan naked below the waist thighs splayed and flayed affixed to the wall so that he is decorating the wall in a wallpaper his skin. And aside the wall, there is a wooden table in the shape of a canopy.
			How important is it that fanmeal should know where he keeps his dresser? She is not there but everywhere she is painting the walls in breastmilk urine and the pulp of her crufixion. The eyelid shivering and intruding on a play but this spiral staircase separates us from that nether wall of passage. He shrinks inside his own ribcage, happy to be but of service. The frog smiles, and it is not a major smile but one that is intruding on the tidiest figure of princess. She feels it feeling her entire body and so she dismiss exit the stageplay and first a bucket of longer tidings. Her stockings they are warm and fuzzy her stockings they decorate her thigh. I ask if you could see it but light is fading on the ill unbidden spider face. A grimace as though in the making I hop a log and make do with a faraway implicated hill. It is upon my face as your hand is upon my shoulder now. Tight, gripping, squeezing, and pressing within my bones. If you are not careful they will never let you go.


The ocean is as loud as ever it was

It's dripping on my forehead
And it is very cold.

The sky is so blue it is searing my retinas to the backs of my skull. The closer we get to euphoria, the more my heart is like a drum. The droll and lifeless patterns of a striked mare galloping orange of the morning coming. Hopeful for a closer glance, the gopher nut patterns bald cheatgrass on the morning shore. It was seven times made closer to that which was wanted by the community, although closeness in truth being in the dissolution of happiness. She smiles at the gopher, her teeth not showing that she is wanting to eat it. Seven times into this maze, seven time temporal phase. Though her eyelid is licked and stark, it is eating the gopher for brunch. Like it was mattered at the faraway partloft, balloway service clamp livid and thrush a naked and a necked person whose genitalia is araignment in the shape of a horse. The thrush and belluin reeth hangs like a spider at the formost corner of the dawn, Dawn, she was made more naked by the sunrail. Prescient and thrush, her clambering animal intima perhaps arranged in a pattern of sunflower glory. Heaping hills of praise upon her soft and sullen bosom makes long eyes perceive the possibility of hearty infrastructure. It was made in the unbecoming of a possy heart and thrush, but perhaps if you are waiting here we can find a new horison. Gladd to be of service.
	He feels the weight of his chest as it is piling its sentimental prop upon the george and supple taint. Gathered in the maze made precious by a stone he is and he is hoping for a gladder sun gains. The corner dressed in cheatgrass and yellow ivy is decorating the faraway implication of his mind in a dress and it is white and it is brilliant. The taste of his dress is the taste of the brightest cloud. It is imprinted upon the sky by the hopes of a gathered community, pleased to be of service now. Their broken brow mistaken in the beaten passage of dusc and a communal parade. It was made here in the sludge of every man and every woman's soiled eyelashes. When it enters your body by the throat and stomach it makes you see a million coloured thrush palettes. They are dancing in the shape of stampeding bellevue and they are brilliant. For he told you you would see, you you would not. Perhaps, but not so that you are further away. He has given you this thing with the purpose that you will be made more full of life, and that your newfound power will enforce the drying cement of an arm in constant waiting. He licks your arm knowing that you are wanting to see the inside of his mouth. Instead he shows you his seventeen fingernails, and you are suddenly filled with euphoric bliss. I found this out yesterday. He needs himself a woman.

Ten teal gor. The sky is so blue it is making me cry. It is making me want to cry, and I cry. I will not hold myself back for the sake of making you think that I am beautiful. I will cry, and so when you enter my stomach do so knowing it is a heresy to truthfulness.
	Ten more times inside the dank corridor called Pozy bay. It leads nowhere beside your own infernal lust, beside the things you keep hidden by the people you have chosen not to maim. By the people you have choosen not to eat for shit but for sustenance. Claim in thy name, you garomann slain. Illuminated by the damp and tired silk that had been inside her, you falter thus.

Yellow sneakers. Pig has yellow sneakers. She is pink just like my mouth. I wish that I had yellow sneakers. I do so like some yellow sneakers. Cough, cough, my bed is in your shoulder now.

The ebony needs to be harvested from green trees when the moon is not quite full but waning now. The ivory trees prove useful in the spring, when her anus asks for jewelry. Georgia complies, promising a tint so granular and sharp. So distinct within the night she will not see it falter. It consumes her thus, that it is her name a heresy to truthfulness.
A rectangular cell is holding an image captured on the foot of a great mountain and a great heritage, inherited, folded seventeen times the face of a mountain, a monolith the ripe and lustful good for harvesting. The nose of a mole is painted on the tree as it escapes towards the welcoming blue. Once that tree has burned its roots, blue radiants glimmer purple there to burn. Immensely asking for a better conclusion I am tempted to find you in a hollow crook of cranberry wood. Follicle parts catch the light of the sun on the surface of a moon. As it severs your finger know perhaps but not doingso.
A rectangul hidden by the moon is escaping.
Four corners of the oblorn landscape, in the ways we are contrived by the aching of a master's thumb rest flush against the big red button.
	Living in the grass however not so that it is futher. Fluttering in the gale. When it punctures the stretched ligament know but do not assume. Be here knowing. And when you are so, you are only a man.
A perfect square crop of wheat or perhaps it is more accurately described to be the levinstide. The corners of its mouth stretch and meets itself a perfect circle.
	A rectangular cell containing within it a doll whose face is carved a lush and present organization of hygiene planes. With two fingers the eyelid is held open, so that beneath it you can look upon yourself and see an animal in waiting.

A gray rectangle with spots of red

The time is second cycle.

The dominion has declared its claim over a piece of territory situated in between the sun and the old sun lords worship. 

Green purple pink and red.

Like his mouth was.
A drop of watery sand falls and lands softly. It lands on a frowning stone. As its body collides and becomes lost of form, the wooden leaf from which it fell restores its veins which sealed inside its body form a network. On a larger scale, the irrigation is carrying water through a sandy ravine where it culminates in my bladder. Felted stones are arranged on the corner of the river where it meets the sandy bed, at the exclusive point where sandy beds are not overborn by rocky highways. Green shoots reach towards the sun, where they are joined with the river, joined with the soil and the cliff face facade to form the nature of a particular manner of corridor. At some point it must become clear, as everything is to be illuminated, these corridors are here to form the breadth and the completion of a field. Whether you stand upon this field which is above your head I will meet you there and together we will dance above the natural grass green patch our feet the soiled baltamieu and drink of the moon a fast and nervous squirrel.
	The gray squirrel bleeding out on the road is licking prescient fallible notions of life and the elder sun God.

Pozy, her thighs dressed in flowers, makes along a trail towards the river where retreat. The water here it is a nectar, and we are needing the nectar of the river of the sun if we are going to feed our little girl.
	The wooden structure built partly in a hill is marking the borderline between coughing feral and the neck of God. Even carved as it is inside a hill, it is promising protection from an unceasing torrential rain. The corridor we protect is called nexus border and we are skirting on the fringes of obscurity.
	Even the highest sky scraper is drinking water from the great basin of its mother earth.

How many times did I trace the roof of your mouth against the corner of my necklace
How many times
And how many times did you tell me it was going to be alright
It was going to be all right.
The elk swallowed the key to my holding cell
I summon the strength of a tectonic wisper
I make do with an implication
Patterns of dry bones
They are visceral visceral they are visceral
Patterns of dry bones on the wall of my holding cell
Visceral it is visceral
I can taste it against the roof of your mouth as patterned waveforms carve themselves by the inch against the nake of my hand
My necklace fraught
Tangling down the sides of my neck
It hangs their suspended in motion patterned waveforms the shape of your mouth
Soiled in solemn waiting solemn it is solemn
I grip it with the sweaty palm once held your mouth in my embrace
Tangible it is tangible lost not lost
With the finger of my necklace I touch the velvet carpet that adorns my naked breast I make do with an implication
Possible it is possible.





A corkscrew enters the bone of my nose
---
The piece of wood that I am widdling has taken inside its stomach the shape of an elk. Although it is a tall elk bipedal in its ways my finger not so stealing but touchs with the pad of glue and silk. Hardened within its own implication by the sap which is hardened by the air. Furious grasping for a next answer, the answer fire melts my fingernail but does not touch me in a meaningful way. It should be made to me known as it is know to all observant animals that these things hanging in the long hall are prescient. They are and they are touching in the ear canal of my scalp within swallowed beneath the skin I can feel it I can feel it and it is prescient. The artery nake of my hair tangles fervent passen like. And my fingernail although distorted in the age is licking at the bowels of your nexus plane. Were it feeding to enter to upon a nervous circuit, it might make you loving dearly the passen levid motions of a blue bird. A blue berry sits on the windowsill. It is not blue but in the way that it provides.
	The pores of my tongue take syrup within a nervous circuit. Ginger stands up in her chair. The look on her face is obscured by tempered animals. Her fingers moving slowly beneath the hiding of the light, she turns abruptly and then she offstage. As she makes toward the door, I notice that her dress is shaped in the undulating movement of her thigh. Prescient it is prescient.
	The carpet which has upon it mosquitoes and scattered berry juice, red berry blends inside the disparate threads of carpet. And it has upon it little stones as they have upon their blouse the nake of God. And he is reaching with his hairy tongue to touch the top of my head with golden berry powder. God is moving my foreskin. Tempered in the mountain they are looking at me from the spectacle highrise. Golden flowers bloom and reach high above and around me as I sink to be within the wooden structured monolith. And a needle is entering tan white bone between the centers of my eyes.

I could barely make this work when I was a boy. I was so young it was unknown to me Ginger return to me Ginger return. But I have fallen now I am no longer here in truth sinking so that I am further away moving further so that I am higher above the naked sky pressing inwards makabrasions nervous mastications I take it and I enter it within the system of my animated body. And I am moving further away backwards my back facing Ginger's face hers was not naked but a nervous mask. It was these mask I wear it was the past it wears on me so yes it does it wears on me. Between the webs of my fingers which are cut with a knife so that drink from them I can a fountain of red berry juice. Were it made to me Ginger I could have made this work for I am older now and my name is not so far gone Still. In the past it was made known to me that my inadequacy is succinct. It digs its fingernails into my neck eating me so that I am further without it. Its claws are only fingernails so I can be satisfied to know that my love is a heresy to truthfulness. When I enter to upon the wooden structured monolith it is large beyond my naked shirt. Lick my lip fraught and pale. Lick my pale tongue with the knowledge of your faithfulness. In the past it was made to me known that these things are no great matter indeed. But once I have secured ownership of the theatre, I can make my own symphonies from the bleeding carcus of her animated body.


I need to look over my shoulder to be certain she is not chasing me but there is nothing moving there. I can almost feel my breath grating against a wind chime. Parial and bare, my feet slow to a crawl and then I am somewhere upon the patterned stones that are golden and cold.

The green flushing figure which is falling to the sky is grounded by a blue pot painted in white whisps of golden satire. It is only a houseplant. When I feel the pregnant motions of my tummy I almost want to sarcophagus. In a temple bare and ancient, the sky is obscured by an even net of clouds.

Three red pillars are situated between me and the exit. There is so far in the distant they are hiding in the light. I almost need to taste them before I spiral downward.

The new lake whisper strikes my face like a clever blade. The muggy air captures the surface of my eyeball as it is exposed to the mosquito. As my body shifts within a nightsuit, I rub the corner of my cheek. Many blades of grass are feeding me the clever spring lake, and dying leaves on the horizon of my muggy vision are several feet away from the base of my spine. As I put pressure on my thigh, I am immediately reminded that I was stabbed by a bout of machinegun fire. It has left me naked on the dawn, where the sun is beating down from high above the scorpion plateau that is so dry and bare of living, desolate it is delusioned by the coming of the light. The light is also fire, and it is feeding on my thigh even as I rest beneath a blanket of darkness.
	The fractal pattern of black trees and swaying leaves ejaculating prescience. My breath is stark but insistently broken by the notched stairwell of my inner throat vortex. Seven wooden planks standing upright in the salty firm earth. As I pass between them one by one their breathing makes it clear to me that his nose was made of mattered hunches. And when he raises it to the wind, all that he receives is the exhale of his static hanging maw.
	I reach the end of a soil pathway and am able to look beyond scattered pale bushes flush with clever bouts of green caterpillar motions. And beyond the lower horizon of my salty eyes there is a baseline throttling the gentle sea.

One two three four Two three four steps spiral downward inside a broken hallway bending within the earth ever prescient will it bend it is not Visceral, it is not begging me to cut my wrist if only to receive the lustful tongue of rabid dogs. It is broken at the hinges where knotted there is not made persistence of being, perhaps. It is not begging me to receive it with the consistent balance of plans that one might expect from a measured man. Not so I, and not so it is licking the boots of my feet. Once I have developed callouses I will do it again without my fingernails. 

The black portrait is framed within a wireframe of glimmering brown copper. Its Ginger prescience is extending a hand to the lonely parts of my sullen body. I receive it with a gentle smile, and together we make do, myself and a black portrait. When it covers me with silky delicus, my tired form can find final rest.

Poppy poppy poppyseed Poppy poppyseed it is receiving me with the ever strengthening bell of its continued notched persistence. As it bends around the musky corridor it does bend within the earth so that I am bending my feet and ever further will they bend. Gripping the sweaty bar my soles clap gently bringing to persistence of mind the necessary doubtfullness in the manufacture of integrity. Ever further will I fall.

The world's reflection is distorted on the surface of a glossy tile
The bitter taste is on my tongue
The scattered face of a green face is scattered on the surface of a tile
The thumb broken by the weight of a large book
Containing many things perhaps
Containing an index of large anthropod
Containing in the twisted implications of its prose a mask decorated in sequins and diamond bells
The dancer's mask, and it is waiting here for the weight of a stone.

The green plants on the lake shore are hanging over the dark line of wet sand. Suspended inanimate by their integral roots. Tangling within the body of the earth, they meet and converge in place of soiled tapestries. The sand on my feet is shielding me from the sand. I could rub it on my calf but then it would be sandy too. Unfortunately, the lakeshore bends into the horizon.
	One stone structure is carved by the hand of a ferret. It is overgrown with vines and the astrewn sea wreckage. When washed upon the shore I did not know I was but the most fashionable thing to find its way here. As I pull the stagnant air within my lung through clogged nostrils I am feeling pretty cocky now. My temple is stone but has the shape texture and origin of wood. The oak pasture will not mind me.

Descending a dune, the sinkhole at the bottom of the sandtrap is swallowing a rattlesnake several metres before me. I cannot hear the warning signal over the sound of rushing lungs of the giant gorland man who stares down from the canopy that could not hold him. His eyes are crusted over in yellow boogers. And his hands are the shape of red dolphins.
	As I feel the silky sand clings to my pads of my feet, I hope the sand will let me leave this place if not for wanting to leave this place. There is such a tapestry of sand in this place.

As I bend around the sulky corridor my feet fall before the lunging of my breath. My hands hustle way and forth. There is a carven matt platter on the origin wall of my facade.



I Have no present moment

Ten years ago I was a baseball bat
Thirteen left me stinky in the bratvieu
In the past I was a seventeen tall purchase
Perhaps on the dusty counter where visitors wipe their feet before entering
But if within my eyes you observe a spark of decency you should ought to know
Ten years ago I was a baseball bat
Thirteen from now I will be stinking in the gutter
Perhaps left by a seventeen rats hurriedly purchased
For the intent that they will serve his hand who is the most fashionable gentry
But not now I am a purple poxylu
I hope to see my amber braces in the shadowed well
Its purchases are held with such a jealousy
I could not see myself in those notched stairs
Perhaps there will come a day I will be longer once again
For now I am left a basic bat
Turbulent when my cup is filled with seagulls
I hope to make myself understood
In the naming process
However purchased


Heavensent

I am heavensent into a ditch
I licked the spoon
I am heavenscent into a ditch
My hairy eye was prudent
I am heavensent onto this path
If you see me in the hall I will put you in the wall
I am heavensent on this path I walk
Golden ivory is not yellow
I am heavensent wishing for the past again
Golden ivory is pale yellow
I am heavensent upon laked pastures
Golden ivory is purple
I am heavensent when you speak my name
Gel district
I am heavensent into the gel district
What was it that he had woken?
I am heavensent
Why did the last woman perhaps
I am heavensent a pink canal
What will happen if I press this button
I am heavensent You press the button
What will happen if I press this button
I am heavensent into a ditch
Seventeen locked doors lead into the courtyard
I am heavensent onto the sidewalk
Seventeen locked courtyards lead into your eye
I am heavensent onto the lake path
Your left eye
I am heavensent Your left eye
I am heavensent onto the lakeside path
You open the chest made of Golden ivory
I am heavensent You see it
Temptation licks at the corner of your scalp
I am heavensent into the corner of your scalp
You wish for a more complete answer than was given before
I am heavensent beside your bedside
You taste dusty counter
I am heavenscent
Your likely to pass leptugoham is tingling with an insistent sensation insistent though to be.
I am heavensent onto the concrete
The definite forms of a story that had you waiting for its next answer
I am heavensent into my seat
The abstract pictures of a story that have you licking at the corners of your mouth
I am heavensent into my seat
And the corners of your mouth
I am heavensent into my seat
They are concrete
I am heavensent onto the concrete
They are abstract
I am heavensent onto the concrete
Or are they really there at all?
I am heavensent onto the concrete
Or are they really ever there to begin?
I am heavensent back towards the beginning
I am heavensent back towards the end
Or have you tasted God
I am heavensent the Taste of God
When he had you on his spatula
I am heavensent into the kitched
Had you ripped the nake of God
I am heavensent onto the dusty counter
But do not leave him tasting purd
I am tasting purd
I am heavensent

I am heavensent into the grass
When I play with dolls
I am heavensent into my dolls
When I play with blankets
I am heavensent into the night
When I play with blankets
I am heavensent into the abstract
I play with blankets
I am heavensent into knowing I have lost everything I ever cared about
I play with blankets
I am heavensent into the night
I play with thick and boiled mattress
I am heavensent into the roadside
I am heavensent into the ground
I am heavensent into the granite
I play with his body
I am heavensent into his body
I play with my pillow when it enters my line of attention
I am heavensent into my line of attention
I perhaps not licking golden ivory play with my necklace
I am heavensent into the corners of my mouth
I play with the abstract
I am heavensent onto the concrete
I fiddle with my thumb
I am heavensent into the classroom
I play with myself
I am heavensent into the arms of God
It was a caring God
I am heavensent into the arms of God
It was the one inside my body
I am heavensent into the arms of God
It was the one inside my stomach
I am heavensent to the dinner table
It was the one inside my pelvis
I am heavensent out to the park
It was not the one that created the earth
I am heavensent into the heavens
It was not the one
I am heavensent into a soapy bath
It was not God but it was my animal form
I am heavensent down to the earth
It was not God but the one inside my body
I am heavensent down below my feet
It was not God but the only one I ever knew
I am heavensent out the other side
It was not God
Who created the earth
It was not God who gave birth
It was the earth
Who created the God
The earth has a womb
God has no womb
God has nothing but
The names we give it

I am heavensent onto the dust
I am heavensent into the sand
I can feel the sand sinking me deeper
I am heavensent
Deeper
I am sent
Deeper
I am heavensent into the sand
It was not the sand that was pulling me
Deeper
I am heavensent into the earthen womb
Deeper
It was not the sand that insisted
Deeper
My body my weight
Deeper
My body my weight
Deep
My body my weight
I can feel the sand taking the place of my perforated lung
Deeper it is deeper
Than I ever felt before
Tending to the right path
Deeper
Tending to the sand
Deep, deep
The texture of sand is the culmination of its longing past
Deeper, deeper into the past
Into the past
Deeper
Into the past
Climb out, or help me climb out
Deeper
Take me deeper

I was heavensent here for a reason
The soil is felted cats
I was heavensent long ago
The soil is dry pellets
I was heavensent here long, long ago
The soil is felt grass
I was heavensent here for a reason
The soil is blades of tenant
I was heavensent yesterday
The soil is losing touch with the things you thought yourself to be
I was heavensent to the grocery store
The soil is good shit out the butt of God
To buy my food
Climb deeper into the triangular nature of reality and you will see
We are what we are meant to be.

At Peace in the world of fixtures.



















Lusy is scratching the felt mattress on the other side of the door. It is a thing held to the wall by a couple of metal pins on the right side of the door if you are facing it from inside, where it is inside. Itchy kind of felt you see, a firm and a thick set of needles held to the wooden planks with a kind of glue made of gorul saliva. She scratching the felted pads of her hands so to build up a callus lifestyle prop. With a wooden stick in her opposite array of fingers, her yellow little fingers that are segmented each an inch, three fingers I hope you picture it in your mind's eye.

The wooden handle knob squeals like a child mouse as turned on its pivot by three staunch yellow fingers. At the ends where they do not meet the alternative matter claws although sharp are used mostly to satisfy irate skin. At this moment she does as much with her left hand that is not upon the doorknob.

Her little feet clap. She breathes a gust of wind into her chest and opens her eyes again to the world. The corners of her eyes although blending with a beige kind of bridge onto her nose are framing intentful mockshift bartifieu new in the morning which is still old and carved as luminescent dimly broken lines and spaces of color against a world jealously held in darkness.
	Lusy has a basket in her elbow, perched by the bending of her arm. She situates her tongue inside her beak. She stops a moment on the front porch before her eyes have adjusted completely to the heat. The heat of darkness.

She begins again towards her destination, described in her mind as the abstract shape of a day's basic duties. She breathes in jealously the living morning's breath; knowing it exhales in part a thing that is not becoming of her animal lung. The dim outline on the borderline of vision does not become more clearly defined by the time she can see it except in the sheltered habits of her electrified statum. 

She undoes the lock with a heavy clock. Suddenly immediately she feels birdsong in her heart.

The smell of cheddar cheese in a locked forest. Must have been sharper than what you can buy at the store. She takes something off the wall on the other side of the door and you hear it clikking against the mature cobblestone. Her intake of breath a cough hoff snick. The sound of wind against bird nostril.
She feels lucky to see the luminescent plant life. I think I can see her putting her hands behind her head. It's a continuouse sort of motion, Yes I suppose she does something with the back of her head.

Immediately with her wicker basket she gets to work. The palms of her hands are not dressed as the rest of her body is in toilsome plumage. The outfit she wears accounts for a great deal of undermining the interferences of her animal body. In fact the palms of her hands are hardy and rough, so she is not injured, but only inconvenienced. A small matter to be harvesting the pohkuomel bodies with those hands.

When she picks one up the Magic inside of it which is constantly there but not often felt for few are there to touch it happily. The heat of darkness, this sort of magic which is the thing creating light for the room of floating cotton plumes, it is not so unlike the tough felt mattress I should point out. It is beating in a heartache sort of way. Constantly around its surface, the energy of the many pads a matted hairs that are not hairs but fibres they will press against her thick skin with a quickness. One after another she puts them in her basket moving down the row away from the door and into the unquestioning shelter of its deep nether bosom.


Naria who offered to help is pulling a couple of leaves on her body. At the moment Lusy enters the sediment room she sees that Naria has entered with the milk she will have gotten from the assistants upstairs. The beak smiles at the other in the way that the sides of her mouth are curled upward. The movement of the clock is not a disturbance but a steady rhythm in the pale gluttonous air. Its own energy percolates through a sieve. As it collapses so too does its prairy lengthen and grow higher. My eyelashes are caught in the food press.

The way she walks insists she is a graceful thing. But effortless she croons the metallic skipping rhythm of a bird's step by the power in her legs. Her ringed eyes pierce the brow search for the countertop clad powder. Hello my new friend.
	So too does Naria place her spoils on the wooden bench and a couple measured headspaces between the edges of stability and perfume heat. Climbing the ladder is a pertinent thing. On the border too, suspect for its violet scent, the crescent patio is situated in between a line of guarded flowers. Stakes high and shelter, low, the fifth cabinet is open and within it can be seen a few large burlap sacks.

Place your body on the sieve... thank you newborn. Maybe in the summer my legs will be shaped in the scent of clementine perhaps. I don't like to think about the future as it is not the future that provides... In the past I sang fourteen black stones on the visible space within solar bleeding. Grass plays to bear until the necks of fourteen are laid bare on a plank of wood.

Naria opens the cupboard to find a measuring cup but is greeted instead by a face made of cornmeal. On the sides of it paper, she opens the next cupboard before she finds what she is looking for and with it returns to the foreground charter. If she is smiling in the portrait made by griffin's posh finger her smile is a passing thing, but that doesn't mean it cannot be appreciated now. Her little blue hands lukewarm to the touch reach inside a single gourd. The many things she retrieves, tasting like wheat, are a fruit juice. The steps on the outside of the kitchen are long enough to fit a modestly sized dog, and they are the colour of a dead animal's skin.


It is a tragedy perhaps that the most beautiful play ever created was written in a language that has yet to be created. But can it really be called a tragedy that it was written?

A yellowed slip of paper carefully escapes her calloused hand. The empty steel bowl sits suspended on two blocks of petrified wood. The spider monkey in a painting hiding in the left eye of the scene is perusing an assortment of fine granite bells, they are set out laid on a red cloth at the far corner of gorlinn path. His ring finger is seven segments of the same cane shoot. Parcel on the doorstep rings a familiar tune. Naria her legs dressed in dough waddles into the foyer where outside can be seen a green thing. It peers curious, and. She checks the lock again before returning to the kitchen. 

Sindy Pox takes an evening morning walk. There are four crooked slabs of concrete suspended in motion, and a large pole stretching upwards and hiding in the mist which is located on the corner past the most gentle array. Parked in the garden seven hedgeshovels border form the border of a moving poss matchstick. She with her eyes so prying and intentional do lock up on the foothold of a sullen metal box, the sound of which seven and some hamster really. The dark which does disguise her is painting litten fuzz atop an ivory tower, seven miles distant, but looking over the peak of her cerebelum as does wander want. Perhaps but made delicate a purple sheet is wrapped around a nother pole on the lefthand side. The side her heart is hiding from, so minded cultlike with a purse and a glamor. The tightness of this alibi is stringent and cold. It has left me many times in the festering lake of an open wound who says "Don't touch me don't touch me, don't touch me" when the necessary finger draws near. Her socks are thick and they are. Once removed leaving marks above her ankles, so it can be felt they were trying to detach the flow of my blood and they are trying to touch me further. But at the rounded corner where she enters the main road this tributary marks her with a jealous and a curious kind of love.
	Narit Narit her blood tied a fiddlehead fern at the waystation of her alibi. Kind so kind, so love the warmth of my chest do not suspect me. Do not reach inside the possibility that the things we are contrived But a nimble finger. But a nimble finger at the station of her anecdote. Do not suspend me on the nervous of your tamber, do not suspend me if you may. Grinning with her arms, the girls are all here tonight. Soon the sun will be wavering its bowering masterwork, and the light which does Pale me tender on my broken facade. I hope for pepper in the garden. I hope for a smaller kind of killing embrace. I hope, but do not suspend.

Once the soil is boiling Lusy graps a spanish knife and uses it to stir nexual rifts in the fabric of its surface. Falling on the unintentional rift the face of my alibi is frothing at the lips. A kind a necessary kindness presses in. And when it reaches bone, he will be there to play it too.
	The deep soil rifts around his eyes frame his eyes as if in waiting. When sunk perpent, collapse but come nearer? And his eyes so luscious as a playdough. Crusted linen sheets are the only thing draping between him and the end of human suffering in perpetua. Stupid gadflies made their nest back of my skull again. Stunked padlie. The necessary pillar on the innermost side of the threshold drapes him in a crusty linen.

The first petal's name is paradise (her neck is cold and prude)
The white fibers stone is named Laramy and cut thrice
In the center of the bouquet is a gerald named Hiccup
The second petal's name is Thirsty (and his fingers are thickly bound)
The last snake emerging from the precipice? Its name is Frothing
In the third petal's name is a lowercase W
Fourth petal named itself Hungry
Five times around the table before letting go?
	The climbing holds surface sprawls several feet in either direction away from the handhold and the blanketed nam. Hammer throng in the beach cloth suspended on all fours.

The break room is full of heather cotton in the way that it provides a thirsty sort of comfort. The dry sort of wetness that hangs here does not insist itself to be entirely without cause. If Mayeer came here on a Sunday he too would have to admit it is most interesting if not desirable if not repulsively bland.

The cotton on her hand, it is special. Which is not to say that it is cold outside. Instead, He touches but does not insist upon glass couriers. At the end of the stout hall where my ugly neck is tree textured you'll must to come in and play aswell. The wicked sick barrier between divorce and satisfaction is layering several top wait hammer legs in the nervous freckled surface we call murhy.







One. The curvature of the outline the index finger; the curvature of the violet which is dark and inset. The wall that is entrenched and circular.
One. The seeds which are swimming in a beige liquid and suspended but in motion. The chalice, technically.
One. The sweetness of turned earth sapped of its moisture. The wildgrass that is soft as its fruit and bends static in motion.
One. The point at which the earth is turned towards the sky is met at the base, and the curious is fractured, fractured it is dry, dry the multitude of yellow bones.
One. The base of the elevated slate is arranged with a multitude of fractured dust, the shape of the dust which is its offspring, the grass.
One. Collected but the slanted hill. A dry lake its lip collecting bushels of dust fibre.
One. The dry lake. On its bed there is lain several broken edifice, and bleeding from the crack.
One. The small drop collected at the edifice is collecting multitudinous yellow fibres. As it collects it also turns inward. Sapping the beat ground.
One. Green hilltops bower singularly as the dressing for a creme, that is breaking from the earth with a thundrous quaking.
One. Great pillars of sand are also suspended in motion and they were built. Technically.
One. The multitude of fibres collect at the lip of a fathomless ravine and it is also bleeding.
One. The nectar fills the yellow grass with a pinkish tinge of the earth. And they being of the earth, they are also of the sky.
One. Hand suspended in motion reaches and as it reaches the armpit it is cut, the elbow it is wrassled, the fingers they are severed.
One. As the nectar turns inwards it is also feeding the ground, a subtle taint. And it is clever in the way that it provides.
One. The face of a mountain as it turns towards the sky is painted red with yellow stripes. And as it falls it also reaches higher.
One. The plane of dry sand which is broken in a pattern of footprints extending outwards in cracks which will swallow beneath, the feverish bug.
One. Huge fingernails make their bedding in the dug soil that is still moist and pink.
One. You soak yourself in the blood of the living.

She weeps silently on the yellowgrass mattress. The passing lights outside which bathe the epileptic patterns and give the bath a seizure, they are naked still they are painting three continuous lines above the upper bed frame. The pale the flowing pale, it is a water and it is feeding you in that water way that it provides. And you? You have learned to love the taste of water.
	The black pebbles that make up this road are bleeding out onto the pavement, the sucture of the rain is too luxurious. If the little hand is wearing seven gloves She will not notice when the train arrives, and were it the necked phantom? Maybe, but perhaps there is a way outside. The ways in which Golorin paves his many pertinent trustee, no person would be surprised to come to learn of another puncture wound. The tube extracts the blood of the living from a cannister of liquid cobalt perchance they would reconcile with the necessary inclinations every person has to violate in the coming to and going from. Hard lozenge tablets on the table nevermind my broken animals. But! However, beneath the earth the magma sluggishly flows but it is hot and it is burning me inside. It seems to You likely for a known carolin part. The fibres on the end of the broom, the ones which collect, and they are touching your face And you are touching my face. And why are you touching my face? And why do you touch me in this way? And when the night is made a constant glowing and when three lines bleed together, do not try to wake me. I sleep for you.

The orange line which separates the highway from the greenbelt is skipping down the lottery today. The scorpion crawled into my overcoat and that is where I keep him. The river man asks me politely. The time of day is becoming hazy but I clamber into his arms today. Climbing notched towers of bound and sterile plantlife they take me to a watch room in the sky and from there I can see the world as it exists today. Becoming... sick to my stomach, I ask the river man for a closer look and he tells me No, dear, but to take a closer look would require many lives and you have only the time for one. And to take a closer look would last you many lives but you have only one. And he tells me with his pearly whites as he covers them in his greenglove. 

The rivers of my magma are insistent of course, they culminate in the tips of my fingers. The rivers hot and painful, but I touch his face the river man. And in his eyes can I see the world as it exists today, and in his eyes draw me sick to my stomach. My mouth expands several feet in every direction and, the sheen on my lips becomes sparse droplets as they do. My teeth do not enlarge but become further apart and retreat inside my gums. He enters my body knowingly. I stretch my rear legs and rub my hairy chest as I move with a stumble. I have become a rabbit.

A child who eats does so out of curiosity. It is the necessary purpose. It is and the child who is curious is also important. A child who eats does so out of instict, it is and it is a rabbit. The child who chokes on his food does so with a purpose, it is and the child who regurgitates her food does so with disgust it is. A child who needs to eat does so out of instict it is and it is a rabbit. A child who eats does so out of curiosity and it is and it is my mother please, the theatre rabbit. It seems the hallway darkens as it enters the nebulous spaces in the backs of my eyes. It seems that light so dim and blinding only reaches so far from me. It seems my retreat has left me lustful and perverse, and the words that can describe that are not tangible Yet, it seems that rabbit tastes me still the pinprick of infinite starlight. And You? You had learned to love the taste of water. Why did you touch me in that way? Why did you touch me back then?


The vast fields of possmisslin are the wellspring source of the maizy. The wind, on the occasion it reaches from beyond the mountains yonder, as it rubs the tops of fruitful ball bearings it feeds the soil ocean water. The wind it is coming from the place where it is cold, the wind it is coming from the ocean. The wind it is coming, and it is coming for the warmth, and it is coming for the fruitful ball bearings.


I have Suicitis

I was waiting in the doctor's office seven hours past ten, and the clock on the wall was shaped like a posybear. Green gloves there were lying on the waiting room table, right next to the sliding wooden balls puzzle. A man walked in with a cane and multiple finger sclerisitis, but the fine stature made me jealous. His pooped pants were green. Clambering to the side of the menstrual hall, there were seven human objects in procession, their hair was made of pink wax and their fingers fine like jelly. God, holds their hands today.
	When I was waiting in the doctor's office waiting room I noticed half past seventeen a little purple hydlin flower. It was sitting on the clock, was it growing there. The nurse whose face was composed in the likeness of a horseflower was naked in the way that she provides. In the hallway fevered and staunch, a little hairy ball. And composed it was in the names of my ancestors. I liked it when it roll. But count on me to take my hand to the nexual riftship. It's not that I am doing poorly, but count on me to be here seven times past ten.

The cuboid was shaped like an ice cream truck. The cuboid was shaped like an ice fire injynn. The cuboid made its nest inside my poorly mastered skeleton.
	My number is past twelve again. My number is inhumane again. Classic Geril, always putting yourself first. I'd say to me. No, sweet pray, hyphon. Level with me stat.
My throat is lined with ice cream cubes.
	When you ask me about my time on this earth, I have to ask you which earth? Because every crop of cropped segment lingers in a feasting way.
The time I had spent in the waiting room, it was fruitful I might add.


The doctor comes into the office as I concoct at last a solution for putting a square peg in a round hole. He looks at me strangely, and then undoing his belt He takes a drink of cellulose. The metal shelf that stands between us, it is bathing in a liquid, and that is not my liquid, but a liquid that has come from me. strange and bees, the musqkitoes. On the back of his clipboard, I can catch on the lingering aftershock of my sensual eye. It is, and it is a pink pony sticker. I have to stop myself from laughing, because there might be a chance he will beat me again. Now what seems to be the problem with me?

She had written several books back then. But they were not books that a child could read, and seeing as she was just a child back then, we kept them locked away. 

We are running out of time to save the world as it exists today.
Will it be locked in memory
Or will it sustain a waterfall
Will it be leveled at the burgeoning hill or will it sustain a waterfall. Will the neck of the sweetest young child ever sustain a waterfall? Will my neck therefore. Would you question it if ever I did insist towards being more than the waterfall? Suspect in the tall grass, like an albino elk hunting its calf. Tender in that way.

The person who eats does so out of curiosity. This is why curiosity is an ultimatum.
The feeding hand leads closer, closer.

The gray and the roughed path it is overgrown with a carpet. Shedded by the stolen light of great trees.
The touching hand reaches, and on its finger the nose of a corn plant which is stolen by the river.
The tenderness, necessary. At the bridge before saint pond, where terrible voices echo there is painted and it is the face of great possibility.
The gathering point of information, where it extends in the direction of the rising sun in the north where planted there gently a tough yellow adelil sprout mountain.

At the end of verus hall, in the windowsill pocket she finds the copper key. It is painted harsh shades of red, it is delicate.
Frozen on the door of the great magic one sprawled on all fours. He is, but a passing stranger. And calmly collected on the sill of dusks
Beneath the fingernail a copper key, pushing harder, harder. Entering by the cropped passage, it is heavy and it is lingering in the salt face facade.
The green sprout a sugar, sporadic and implied. Heavy on the horizon where faintly painted lines are ginger in the morning of afternoon.
That face, the one painted in expressive shades and painted with the fingernail. Heavy, it is heavy.
Passing on the left noticed with the flicker of shell, touching the pads of my fingertips
She breaks into a sprint at the breaking of the dawn. She breaks and does not become whole again for a passage of time.
Will this hand sustain a waterfall, will this finger cut at its basin therefore.
Contented to know, but only when the last finger of lettuce and bacon is stolen from the patio hardwalk.
In the breaking passage written by the breaking hand, it falters but a moment before breaking into a sprint.

Where does the eye meet the river? Where does the concrete foundation meet the river, therefore?
By reaching out its hand, shedded eyelash has become the least necessary person to speak the truth.
With hope in bats of eyelid, tender now the thrush of naming.
I hope to become more thoroughly painted in the evening hour of this concrete basin.


You can walk along the candlebar silent as a mannequin
But when the slipshod heavy hammers you'll go flying
In the deeply cut notes of scarlet on white, red on white
Sometimes harder, some time softer.
At the brunt of the metal head of the ram
Without thinking, you are suddenly brought by a gale
Its notes are a symphony but they do not intertwine
There, at the precipice, you saw it one day.
Clear like the pint tilting downwards and squeezing tighter
As night turns its hand clockwise without thinking
The thumb of the moon offers you shelter,
shelter in release it is the shelter of release.
And some days hard, some days it is softer.
The canal the animal canal, turns and intermingles with
The dry, the dry brush and the pointed nascent
The air of the canal not noble global in its pursuits
With the might of dust it succumbs
At the corner of the overcoming light.
Sometimes loud, somethings quiet
It breaks when it turns the bend, and its second sister
She dances under the light of stars nakedly
Therefore with the weight of the precipise
And expecting a certain weight in the measure of dust hale
The hex becomes wider as it too is swallowed beneath
The dust.
It's that symphony that same symphony
The kind of symphony that doesn't rhyme
Beneath several layers of cotton, it was never left for good.
There were days it was inclined to ask you for a favor as though it had not been enough to persist inside your living canal
The broken canal lingers at a floodgate before it steps between the butte and a long hill
Climbing like it did that day
Climbing like to tell you things will never be this way
After your finger gets caught in the wire there is a shadow in the other room
It takes you a moment before you recall
It's that song again
Sometimes louder, sometimes softer
Break, step, and retreat
Before the grass becomes too green for my naked eye.
After heaven
The root is suspended above the river, atop it you should climb
I haven't seen a weasel here in seven count in time
My naked weasel he suspended above the river
Where does the water meet the sky
If not conservatism with extra steps.
It takes you a moment to remember
Sometimes soft, sometimes hard
It's that orchestration of the guitar solo
Gets me every time
Sometimes louder, sometimes quieter, always fifteen feet underwater
The clock radio will do that to you.
I can't find that old weasel on the bank
So my fingers dig into the topsoil
All I find a watch before the current takes control.
And I am swept as I am watching you walk upon that root above the river.
Cutting notes of ginger crimson at the point the water meets the sky.
I take a deep breath before I emerge







When Wilbur tries to open his eyes there is a little notable resistance, they are crusty. He wants the wipe the boogers from his eyes but his favourite paw is hammered to the cardboard with wooden pliers. It can't be moved an inch. His other arm, too. He hazily glances at his surroundings, and to be blunt, they are a little strange to him. He whispers under his breath, tries to cast a spell, but nothing comes out. That's when he notices a little weird feeling along his neck; the first thing they took was his vocal cords. It's that weird feeling you get when you have surgery but they forget to put in stitches so you can feel the flesh sliding in that way it was static prior. He's having that feeling now.










The tangerine moon is held by nimble fingers and casts rays of ambre light on the unsuspecting pillars of Tutset Nim. Shelled bodies gyrate within the gaping crater clenched at its hinges by the wooden nails pressed into hard gray dirt. Their lanterns battle with the moon for supremacy. Within the darkening shaft twelve bodies push and murmur against one another gaping deeper with eyes and minds set firmly on the angled ladder pathway in the dirt, its supervisor recently expired. The heavy set and incumbent form of a naked pal brushes against a loose candle and burns his nearby partner at the hip apologetically; The candle darkens and the light of the moon falls on them, its nimble fingers barely reaching a throw away from their location where it droops and bowers from the angular maw. He tosses his arm across the room and pulls himself strangling from the moist room. Dripping with sweat, he a shambles over to the nearby wash closet where they boarded up for the night, and has a gulp of some nice cold malarky beer.
	Within the ambre booze his eye reflects a stranger on the threshold of his dwelling fifteen minutes after the day they lost him. The dark figure's smooth drooping nose bowers over an angular maw and its kindness is temporary, or so the strong man thinks. Stomaching the booze before placing it on the makeshift countertop, he rubs his eye with a moist index finger and plays a game of hopscotch with the midnight visitor's tongue.
	The first most necessary thing they speak of is the need to return to the job, because Finbego Laus Meir is upset with the stagnation of its progress. Typical of an upper classer to judge without knowing. The two of them spit in each other's beer and gaily gant back underground. 

The captain's stereo blasts noise music in the middle of the night. The taste of raw stone is one of the sharpest memories I have of this place.

When metal meets metal in a bright clash of magnetism, the rhythm of an endless workday is revealed in all its ugly discord. Hogurt's hand with a sandy glove is splayed like a starfish on a bubble of obsidian, unlike the gray dirt. Painted in large patches of inky black the scene his eyes reveal is fragmented and tame to deceive its true nature. He reaches out his hand to take the hand of the musky stranger and is pulled deeper into the dirt, grabbing ahold of his wrist until he is able to exhume days of exhaustive angst spent lingering in the sandtrap. It bubbles before him and spits liquid stone into his face before retreating into a flat face. The golden ring he lost rings golden in his nose.
	The raw flax mattress wrinkles underneath the weight of a warm body tucked haphazard between two sheets of rough hide. Clambers hot eyes bathed in shadow and candlelight pick out a flat desk surface and wander to the memory of a novel in progress. A cold hand hanging off the side of the bed stings in stasis so as not to be felt. Dazeless and paranoid, she slips back into the night.
	The orange shell glinting in the moonlight is paralyzed temporarily. In a subtle majesty the curtains at the outer wall hide the orange shell. The heat of the moon sears icons into the sand, and flaming they are quenched of mortal aspirations. Deep beneath the hammerhead altar a tunnel bored into the gravel slip is holding its breath for a small party of researchers. 

The tangerine moon is fractured on mirrors in the courtyard of Tutset Nim. The boiling plate's coarse well worn surface is fragmented across the pentagonal hall and elevated by pillars. There is a typewriter in the study, illuminated by the rays of orange that trickle in from the collapsing masonry. Every passing mass it is used to record the progress of the excavation by the scholar who had joined them at the gulf of the obsidian void. In that place where the port town of Uhd spins dizzily stable on the economy of silence.
	Tonight, as with every moment of the ceaseless night, the golem's hand swims peckishly among the keys. The first most necessary thing he writes of is the need to return to the job, because the tunnels beneath the chamber of entry are slipping faster with the weight of many great bodies, and the body of the earth itself, the nakedly profound disposition. As he writes, he also contemplates things in the realm of familial estrangement.
	The flat plates that border the lowlands sway in the course of the cosmic winds, over the course of uncounted turnings of the abalit. They sometimes reveal things once lost by the ancestors of present, and often speak in their unabashed turnings of the lives of people yet to live. 

It was on the precipice of this great field that Nattim first clasped the weight of his life's burden. When plunged into the icy rivers of isolated silence they found themselves wandering miles from the waystation where they found their first backpack. He broke the silence with a flush and a bandage when he lunged at the officer whose name precedes gossip, lovingly rubbing the tender part of his thigh where the spider had stabbed him with an emerald spear. They did as much under the white light of camera's flashback, so I preclude dismissal. The broken part of him was later found underneath the waystation alongside a tomb of rejected manuscripts. For days he yearned to touch the white light but forever ago lost his piece in the imaginary ebb and flow of constipated mass.
	The next time he opened his eye to the ashtray ceiling fifty marks in debt and the foundations shaken. Reaching out his hand to run it across the silk ash floor tray squeezing ash between his webbed fingers. The antidote was mocking on a table tray backstash fifty yards away. The camera on his face was flashing and his neck popped with movement. As he bent his accidental spinal cord his bendy nape was floored. When he broke his actual fractal weight his nervous flush was stored, in the tangerine moon.

The dungeon was accidentally built underneath the lord's hall, so that whenever you walk that hall you can feel the thrush of wind that are the souls of the damned. And every time you walk that hall you damn them by your hand. So that every time you walk that hall you lose a piece of yourself to human history.

The third corridor at Tutset Nim is hidden to the tangerine moon by a mosaic of shredded dresses inset at the highest wall of limestone. The bug dashes up marbled stairwells on the flat body of the wall. The warmth of the wall underneath the searing moon emanates indiscriminately. Casual dress flay in the cropped window where a gale is sucked through marble glass. 

The axe in the hole thunders badly hoping crack at the wall of stone it is pasture longingly, it is loudly breaking. Clouded over with names not long ago, it hangs in the mithril badly pastured. Named long heavy go forward and into the version stone pathway. Happily gander across the naked pasture at the crow hawk bending its knees into the silt into the silk pasture, grown here and grown longingly the passed laughed half after making loss bright again. Tenth again past the naked burning grass the desolated plateau and half after longingly passed laughter green again for years. Heavy but not stained with the broken glass of half after badly half after. Being me I was glad to retain the slightest memory of Tutset Nim. On the borderline of gross beauty he took my hand and pulled me up. He took my hand and pulled me into the nexus of bright lights. He took me by the hand into a field of gross beauty perhaps at the end of the world he looks into my eyes and tells me I am enough but not enough. Heavy in the gross beauty half after your laughter sank into my chest like an axe, and stuck there longingly pushing through its throat for better yield in the summertime after half glass full of gross beauty again my hair is broken at the notched stairwell marbled like her face was marbled in the gross pasture. Tenth for the laughing stock of goats and collected on the borderline of realization half after the rain heavy as it can be on the night of green tidings and the yield the cornmeal it grew to powerful weight. It was glad to be my companion on that gross beauty, that heavy gross weight on my back kneeling before the precipice of realization the gross pasture, beauty as in waiting it called with luscius pronouns half after the last supper. Caught on my hands by ants and taken into the kneeling butt of the flower, growing on the windowsill and breathing in the temporal capture. Hearts bound in gold string bit my nipples and pulled hard so that I was string cheese and my animal being a supple nape. Clever horses gather at the fence to wait for dinner. Once on time they bowed their heads and Hark, the leather and the golden string pulled its weight in silver for the first time since the long haze here in my brain capture the temporary need for speed. Gladly I suffice when hopeful bare birds climb my windowsill thigh and take a peak inside. The heavens high above the ones that are blue and gray, today they capture and hold in their minds perfect not beautiful gross pasture bare and sullen at the foot of the father's farmhouse. Massively heavy, dropped on a broken foot and sucked from the earth that was tilled last summer's eve. I regret not being there to pass the time. I will see and you will be witness to the next great heart throb opera, unless you recollect your ill tidings and succumb to the inner beauty of a horse on the fence. Leaning into the magma they succumb, in that way that heat pulls.
	Must I remind of the first time you saw my face, and you hesitated for you hold regret inside your being? Well now I will show you another way into the chamber of Lud. He holds you when you remove from the great ill bath-house. 

The tiled courtyard in the moon shone itself deliciously spectacles. The mighty hand of a heart throbbing with disbelief was tempered four times on saturday. The plateau on beet hill, it sucks glass. Into its shattered maw.
	Heavier still my hard hand bursts into the throat of earth's beholden garden. Tempo of the beat glad to be of service, it hangs within the sold garden grass higher than eyeballs of the horse if its horse was my gross beauty again, we suck at the broken tit. Hello to the golem burden heavy as can hold its own weight, gleefully stained half after the naked plateau of glass and brilliant lightning. When the moon became dark and the eyes were shadowed within the burden heavy, my glowering proof broke severalfold onto the table board. Healing light was not reaching the brother's hand! Whenever they were waiting here, he found himself stealing in the back hard cased brown. Gloves heavy broken facade hopeful but not prepared, glow for the moon or you never glow for good. Human beings stuck in silt broken hands broken hands all our broken hands and you will not be better for as long as you are human in this world of the modern garden bask in good light or burrow into the sand and become a sand lion and consume all that comes near your trap of silt, you silt and humanity your anima purple. The red curtain bled onto the floor and revealed its true color, and the colour was gold. And the day consumed all thoughts I had for you and the grass was succumbed to the naked bare hare broken on the horizon but where is my horizon when the grape bear naked and tainted burden. This was not the thing I came for, succumb if heart throbbing broke you heavy half after. Gleefully hanging in the courtyard from the sacred oak branch, more sacred than your neck. Suck your last breath of the oak branch and become one with your loving family, you villain. Next time in the urethra, you will think twice about thrashing violently.

The tangerine moon train station is also green. Cesspools of brilliant velvet surround the track but. At the line in the distance neon pink hair waves towards the moon. And red pillars their paint peeling pretty much every day, globally too. 
	The bright line in the distance glows for pennies! Calling for reconstruction. Nearly lost on the distance so far away, the brilliance made it greatly exaggerated. It was for the best.
	This time last summer saw the return of the flowing birds in high heels on brown skies for years good brass.
Fourlien is hopeful when she hears things described this way. Because she used to see the operahouse as the scattered fragments of the tower she left behind. Now she knows her life was just a memory.

The tangerine moon has something living caught in its teeth. I tried to extract it but found myself injured. Do you think you'd be willing to take a stab at it?
















The kefloxer heart burned the palms of my hands in the midnoon sun, because it can be easy to underestimate the heat of metal. Myself breaking from the stream. So I turned and became whole in so doing, perhaps because the nexus this way lie. And seven pretty cacti stood before me on that day. They offered up their tentacles and succumbed to my scalded hands.
	
	
	
We feed the living mass from mineral deposits and they come in truckloads. Brickoven has the shift in the midnoon gloss. Difficult to envy, to tell the truth, breathing mass touches skim milk in the morning and passes up deposit in the afternoon. In the time between aswell.

The chamber is painted a solar orange that creeps up walls and hangs from the foundations. Straight and narrow the beige black metal compresses panels of dry and flaking paint. The balcony long narrow and tumultuous clings to the walls. Under foot streams of dots cylindrical pressing laterally flow towards the tub that is punched into the floor.

In desperation, Lil Po bounces down across the balcony like an energized particle. He slides down the ladder more elegantly than he intended to. And on reaching the bottom, stumbles across the sheet concrete until he reaches midnoon. A bucket in his arms. It is filled with the chunks of the flayed man, the fruits of his labor staunch and irreconcilable with the source material. Grateful Pot receives him with open arms, hesitates a moment, and releases his grip. The two of them exit through the back door just as Gold is making his way for the start of the next shift. Li'l Po may have been too eager to abscond with the release lever for the old tub. Simon joins him for the shift now as it shiftily commence. First in the order of the business, they the two of them clasp with open hands upon the ginger diamond release.

Beneath the skin, Simon uses his tweezers to extract a glowing bug, and he puts it in his nanny sack so it will not get away from him. Simon observes how the naked muscles twitch even as the life bleeds from them like a chocolate milkshake bleeds into a paper napkin.

It's important that the chunks of deposit are roughly even sized and placed at a roughly even distance to ensure the kefloxer heart is fed such that it is not distracted. This is where all the food comes from that feeds the city, so yes, it is a necessary inconvenience. On the outside of the chamber, something loud, long, and gutteral reverberates for miles, as a talon scrapes against the metal enclosure. The whining howl follows before the ambience of the molten tub reassumes a hum. Kefloxer bread is soft but malleable and melts in your mouth after an indeterminate statutary period of time. Wooden now the breathing log is overflowing in its tub, so Gold slips over to feed it a pair of nougats harvested from the bucket. Christmas time is here again for the living boulder. Mucus salad demonstrates gratitude or perhaps hunger. Gold at the forefront spins and dips his toe backwards where green dips be longest. His own personal cubicle. The undulating heatwaves beat a primal rhythm indeed. Paper drums shake the chamber and impose upon black foundations face to face. Simon's plate sized gloves are suctioned to his face so they do not rattle in the way the vivid doll will.

Even in places where you cannot understand the language, the people cling together as life goes on. And the comings and the goings are kept stable by somebody's ordinary life. So it was in Xanfillinektate house on fifth street by the rolled up pines. This was long before you were born. It's boarded up now and nobody goes inside except the gale who seeks the release of death. My dog's name is Georgiea. People with broken hands are more likely to sleep in cotton beds on the morning after a traumatic exposure to film light. People who seek the ginger parade are more likely to find themselves lost on the highway back from home. And all who wander are lost, and all who lose the tempered foundations are only waiting to retrieve their broken hands at the waystation parliament. My neck is matted with luscious jackson. The climate will only continue to worsen.

Inhale the dust in the air does the living boulder, whose outline is hazy and ill defined against the static panels that rush left and right as they climb the night sky. Simon releases his grip on reality before it becomes languid and ill purposed. His breathing is stale and yet measured, he has done this before. I have done this before.

The golden railing is shimmering purple. The taste of it reminds Simon of his brother's shirt.

This next piece is called You Could Learn to Love the Taste of Water

Glesmis collects water in a pail from the wooden well. The rotten wooden well is dripping green slime but still it smells like perfume. She clears her throat. She has a drink of lime concentrate and dips her toe back down the mountain. On the way back she passes mountain goats feeding their young from the mountain spring, delicious crystal spring water. She heard from the old prophet those springs are enchanted by the things living in the black forest. The black forest is tucked underneath the spiralling mountain trail, and cannot be missed unless it is meant to be. She takes the path down by the forest so she can catch a breath of the living forest air, but is forever taking care not to become lost in the tangle of roots and jutting rocks that compose the forest floor. However on her way by, however careful might she be, her attention is caught by a small white rodent eating orange berries and digging a garden of seeds as it moves up and down the clearing just a throw of a twig inside the imposing black maw. The first statue she sees is filed down by a jigsaw, and has little nuts of brown spangled all about its surface as they disappear beneath the surface of the cold tree blue cylinder base of the mighty form. It is kneeling over her, its knees outstretched, a bright mantis television that looks like a tepid threshold. So she enters for a time, and loosely sketches brass nickels before looking at the little white rodent and realizing she passed the forest border.

The accidental pang in her heart is followed by a recitation which opens her left eye to the darkness around her. She sees little more than she saw before. Suddenly she scratches her neck and notices the other statue.

It is big and green and partly hidden behind a black branch. Engraved on its surface green tendrils wave and spiral tangling themselves into bunches and wisps of cold air before breaking on a hard wall. She can read it, and it speaks of the mountain and the canyon to the north.

Finally she turns and asks the little white rodent, who has finally taken a break from planting its orange berry seeds, her face in solemn amusement, 'Where have you come from and where will you go from here? I have never seen you around the operahouse, and you ought to know there are monstrosities out here on field world. I'm sure those odd things would love to snack on a little thing like you.'

The little thing bats its violet nose perpendicular towards her right, where there is nothing, and it speaks to her in an old language, 'This mountain keeps me sheltered no matter what you think of me young thing. I have for ages lived inside this place that is living and tangled and although you think yourself forsaken, I have learned a thing about the living things that walks this field world. And that thing I have learned is they never come for the people who are golden and have learned to walk the middle way.'

She looks indignant and huffs her nostrils, and for a moment she is overtaken so that she picks up the mouse and puts it in her mouth, so that its spine is caught between the roof of her mouth and its tail snug between her teeth. 'If you are so stubborn I will show you what it feels like to suffer'

I hesitate for a moment. I have done this before.

And it speaks against her uvula 'Very well, but see to it that my garden is well tended in my absence' And suddenly the moment of clarity so she spits the thing out and leaves the forest to bring the well water back to the house. The next day she plays hoops in the playground and balances on beams.

The dead gray field seems to move underneath the flacid black sky. The darkness is empty and without movement, and still it imposes with a directionless clarity of purpose. And its movement is reflected in the dead gray field. There is a hum in the air that seems to originate from inside his ear. It is low pitched and groaning with a little high pitched but seems to cut itself off just above his range of hearing. And then the tree

She opens her eyes again, her brain a little fuzzy after hanging off the balancing beam at the construction site. She coughs and almost falls five floors before regaining her sense in such she is allowed to breathe. Standing on the metal beam she slips towards the elevator shaft, where another beam leads to the empty shaft she climbed up to reach this nice little point up here.

The sliding glass door is caught on a coat hanger for half a second before it opens wide. On the outside of the foyer, cardboard boxes are stacked up high until they reach the moon. Awesomely striding along the sidewalk, she carries her empty briefcase to softer tidings. With a song in her heart she becomes on the other side of the walk. It's not long before she passes by the stretch of path along the black forest, and for a moment she reconsiders before hopping the outer bramble and reciting the eye opening spell the old prophet taught her years ago before she came of age. She clears her throat thoughtfully before apologizing to the garden expectantly and listening around for the movement in the air that should be coming any moment. 'I suppose you really have been killed by the strangers on the field. It was inevitable, and I do believe I told you so.' Before she can finish however the little deep voice beckons from the bramble. And it reassures her but she is suddenly indignant again and takes a step closer to the twin statues. 'So maybe I was wrong. But it is still inevitable'

'Surely it has been for years, I don't expect you'll do anything about it. I was only out looking for you, because I heard word you had been killed by a cyan thing.' She takes a look at the statue on her left.

'I have never been killed, I think you are thinking about your self.' She takes a moment to catch her breath and notices she hasn't seen the white rodent with her eyes. 'Why can't I see you?'

'One of many in my bag of tricks, I won't be visible to you until you've earned my trust'

'You were visible to me yesterday. Or whenever the last time was. Recently.'

'And you were quick to lose my trust'

She stands her feet on the ground as the soil slithers around her feet as it often does in stories from the black forest.

He reaches out his hand and can almost feel the dense blackness. It is so heavy such. The ground seems to lift him as he is ever falling and the way it pushes into his feet is unnatural with intensity, he can barely stand like this for three minutes. The humming becomes closer even as it drifts further away. And his eyes have you to adjust to the morning sun. The wood gray field is beaten like a drum.

The red curtain hangs on twisted strings. Long boards compose the stage. Glesmis wanders in from the left with her face away from the audience. I just want to be a good communist. I don't even want to be an individual anymore. I just want to be part of something.

Red berries hang growing from a string. Yellow ribbons waver hanging from branches. Violet bells shake gently in the wind. Specks of viscera collected on my windshield clench perpent knots in the wind. A hum in the back of my mind stretches itself thin continuously before bending itself in a circle and returning again. Pounds of moist dirt clench my fists with jealous fevers. My lungs collapse slowly before coming back around again. The whale has its neck on a string and plays the fiddle cucumber. The fire consumes the open field and smoke reaches as far as the ginger shed. The sharp musk is carried on the wind therefore so the bears in the metal enclosure raise their noses to the metal barred window, and the rust scrapes the air but not before digging itself into a ridge. As I grind my teeth. And I grind my teeth. The plastic toys clustre together in the metal corner. Grasping their hands together they look on helpless before the behemoth that is light-consuming and all-present, and whisper arias of binding before the end.

Subtle in the mist a broken fever pitched banjo wears spectacles as he picks up the shards of a moon glass mountain. The palace far behind the trees spills cyan into the rivers of the sky dancing on the clover blanket. Twigs are planted upright in the LATOSOL. Concrete mixture fills the air. In her room Glesmis lays belly down on the carpet as a song plays on her 21st century stereo, crooning carl out a deep quirky carltoon voice

'Reality is '

'Someone else's dream'

'A catalog of '

'Memories'

'Sometimes drifting closer and sometimes'

'Further away'

'Reality'

'Someone else's memories

'Never touch me'

'Nowaday'
She's about to sink into a deep field of cucumbers and nevid pastiotas before somebody name's Gerler Pye comes knocking at her bedroom door. His fickle and yet boulders grin pierces her throat before she can mustre a breath of consideration. He licks out a handful of words before going back out the way he came.

'Touching you, fertile pear gaze purple, yet'

She goes out back to the black forest to hear the better licks of a fresh friend.

His coughing pierces out from across the bramble and echoes off twin statues as he lays somewhere, so she is careful not to step on him as she carefully digs each step a new drawing in the part lame handle. She is silent but even she can tell he notices her here. The two exchange no words but share a meandering time on top of the orange speckled garden soilbed.

'Want some bread? It's in the cupboard'
'You haven't got a kitchen out here'
'I have bread'
'When are you going to let me see you again'

He sighs deeply and for the first time she considers that she may not be a welcome guest.

She lets out a bit of a throat squeak and he makes an offended grunt but the silence itself is what stands between them. Precious metals peak out where the sun meets the bark of the trees and the flowering long grass just outside the forest whispers a melody of nervous beauty. Her complexion becomes unreadable and she sits down underneath a statue to meditate.

The next time she awakes, the sun has sank below the mountain and it is getting dark out. Thomas is struggling with relative obscurity but his most recent contract is giving him cold feet. It came from the wheat banker who works upstate and comes down the Gloves every dynamite salad to get a black tomato. Thomas was hoping to get off with a cold buck or three, but now as he puts in the negatives for the first time since black friday he's beginning to understand it won't be so straight forward. He sighs and pulls the palm of his hand down the length of his nose. He'll have to start looking into the vigilant perpetrators on the right side of the yellow broomstick wellspring. He puts away the gleeful mouse file and begins towards his thick and wide bookshelf that smells like boiled cabbage. The first spine he needs to pull is needles thick in the underbelly of Gloves Square. She looks around for the little white rodent before remembering she won't be able to see him. With his finger on the trigger he takes to the elevator down to the lobby. His car is beige and liquid shaped but rusted in its hidden crevices.

Afternoon traffic doesn't inhibit storm because he taken the backroad. The nerd high finger pole inhibit gleesin but stitches grately. The good parking lot, however, is full. 














Beneath the sand, along the sprawling field of the corridor of moss and wood, the king's chamber is hidden. Mighty statues hold it skywards and drifting leaves fold it back again the nervous circuit perpetually lingering into nine calls and faltering there. So be it that orange weeds perking up from beneath the ceramic tile are gleaming with purple incense and clever to provide shelter to the tepid glass mattress. His hand that sustains garden of lie perspective shifted by the serpent's fingernail. And it too was lost in the days of morose dithering. When he held out his crooked lifeline for the gloaming moth at sunset of the isle of perspective his forehead was also severed from the skull and naked, it too became severed from the scalp. And riding on a silver wave that scalp washes on the shore of eternity where nests made by tender nostrils gloaming freely on the golden gravel.
	Gleaming with intensity heat backstash timeout neck. Time on the shores of eternity left her wishing for a stinging balm.

Perspective laid out his scrolled up nostril of baubles and seven tokens before wiping away a spot in the sanded over climate for where he may sit sterile like his hand is sterile. The next moment passes without a thought for seven nervous circuits; token gleaming in the bathtub faraway nordstock balm. Rubbing his forehead he cannot even shrink within a chamber of stinging wishes, for upon the wishing road he set out seven years ago. His eyelid however is twitching beneath the fingernail cardstock. His nipples too, jealous in the picture stand bathing.
	Turtle eggs hide beneath the cardstock bracelet and hold out scented candles in midnight before the crow hawks footsteps sound. Importantly they fragile stand solitary in protection of the wuthering dust particles. Stand too do the necked posh ladies in the darkening corner of the aster crow hallowed. Sticking sticking and pulling away, before the air becomes too thick to breathe.

The yellow corridor that stretches into darkness breathes in the face of Perilous tomorrow. Hard headed strides into the felted black drapes pushing them aside and becoming a same to the morse temple powdering. Splayed hands too will capture in the moonlight something staunch and stealing before they measure up to the needed persons at the foremost corridor of the kernal of the maud. 

Suddenly an enormous neon green face slants sharply to the sky before plateauing and becoming sterile sixteen miles from the floor.

In the city of the sun pritsy git sits stationary in the perlinn glass chamber. 
The wire frame cutout of Boston is suspended on twin cylinders in the glass chamber. Clean eyes patrol the gloaming before coming to rest on spider legs of old. Up in the sky where is talking and the like, frozen in pitch are the two godsent pastoral. Herd of wolf bothered with gleaming tests passed successive to the roaming plateau strangely held and spider felt and yet still no closer to a destination. Be he man, mammal or fish, still he was a lost purse by the bedside of slam dunking. Twenty more years until the end of the universe.
	Reaches us from far out in space travelling from light years away. First come the stolen beams and then lucent pathways break on our soil. All that was tempered and restored on the hills is made half burst up higher than speed can successfully take you. The teeth of the ocean are also weaving melodies.
	Purpose mistook them for a travelling merchant when in reality they were a poor and a striped girl.
	She bends before the solar eclipse and picks up from the earth the magic amulet.
	It is the last amulet and it is gleaming with the darkness of the eternal blood moon.
	Quickly she dispels her overcoat blanket and splashed into the water of the eternal blood moon.

Timber also was found that day. Stacked high in the shape of a home it sucks the water of blood deep within its crevices and holds it in a chamber that is faltering now and flush. Tempered swords blow high scions of silver glass into the forehead of the sky.
	The elaborate metal pole descending on the ocean pulls up hills of sand and pushes them deep onto the ocean bed of foam stiff and shaking. Before it succumbs to its own weight it tastes the morning brow and decides, tenderness is for the stolen cup and mercy sang her victory before her time. Once broken on the foam stiff shore it stuffed itself full of cotton and flew to her arms and it said Please, please, be alright temper. Bursting with volatile rivers of stinging sirens, the pain although immeasurable is singing too.

When soft and tasted it is pleasant she set herself afloat on beams of timber. Flowing like a paper doll on streams of gold and silver. Never laugh for severed glass its hands are too a gleaming bath of haste and stitched together parts of animals and plants. Heavy is her breath for the hope that it may weigh down the rising tide within her chest, she sets afloat on beams of timber. Falling into the river of her blood as rapids take her skywards she is sent for a moment temporarily static. Never again do her feet touch the soil she sets afloat on beams of timber.

The cyan thing on Mother's blouse is a deeper shade. Spinning round it centers itself against her jaw and the sharpness of her shoulders. When she twirls it too dances like a pearl inside the gate. Goritt stole it from her last Saturday and keeps it in a tub before dawn breaks her jaw. The rivers are choking on their tears.

When I opened my eyes first to the astral sunrise terrible in its majesty bloated in its visage hopefully lesser scraped in its eternity. I found my arms to be mountains and my rivers to be veins, and my nervous system bloated was severed from my name. And it was somewhere deep in the wood burning stove.

Climbing higher and higher the oak gallops snapping at reins. At the precipice it slows to a skid before throwing itself into the emerald bath. The conjurer picked up his leaves and they were scattered at a rate of six in the morning. This temple climbs the mountain eagerly.

Piercing the skin at a high pitch howl that wind which breaks on standard panels serpent shaped and fierce did come blowing down this way. As trees uprooted shattered glass illusions the ordinary temple stood like a zit pierced in ways tanner. Arms outstretched Stan embraces the serpent tail and suplex that beast into the ocean. Falling deep and dark in the mire of the tail bugs perk up their noses to the scent of mead clean. The sandtrap boulder disappears and in its place the first eye is heavy and yet further than the length of the investigative finger. One ravine is breaking against the stone brick surface. If we all stubbornly asked each other to work harder we might be able to move farther as a society but that day is yet to come. Curious I say. Where do the blue jays hide, Monty Parkson? Running out of stamina before the starting line, she gladly tightens her seatbelt. To be done meeting people on their playing field. She takes a deep breath and departs this wicked turntable.
	The blasphemy predicated on broken plastic was serrated in its nature and tumultuous brown. Smiling with intensity were the curves and the stipulations of its nevid stocks classic they say but not with enthusiasm. The theatre was not half full on the premiere, and thrown about by sparked tense sensations black girds the plastic playover firmly with intensity. Prepared to snicker at the nervous dawn but Hark for gloss feather never left for long on the beaten and desolated shore of oblivion sandals. Climate fast and purchased with knick knocks heaven snickers badly with its temporal sterling pace cold. Strung up and tied a fiddlehead fern stuck me bravely with yellow piercing feather tips and succumb to the naked glass mountain on the outskirts of the broken already cracking dawn badly. Strung up and high hired buttress purchase with the still bat face inside of poor stills. Grooming tenser stills bastard gloss feather breaking before nightfall it was badly cracked and hung up the highest branch of sterling purse nervous.
		Stock breaked sterse purse before it sang in high pitch at the female grass and strung itself with noodle paste it sang with nervouse tissue. Pretending not to care we sang our excess lullaby on the borderline of suffering, we smothered it with tender loving before sticking it inside the freezer box.

Before you sang beautiful pastures you were a prisoner to the bath of stinging neddles. Precious bosk knot purchase you before the end of the terse backdrops please service further backdrops and delightfully drop the bastard needle. Hanging by its hands and dropping its pants we worship in stance mighty and strong. Tears never reach the ground that fall from such heights and burning sensation never reaches the nervouse system whose digits are such knives. Bracing with integrity gorrit passed a strong tower and broke her name so forth. Often is it found that names are broken and that which is to be left unfettered is smothered with the weight of everyone at once.

I am. The frozen cliffside. The swirling tundra. The biting cold. The naked lady. Back to back.

Darkness first and then the brazen ego. It suffocates integrity with the fire of its growing tempo, it's not perfect itself bursting with stubborn integrity. Grimace boy stank up the sauna with his broken bones and exposed lesions. It is a perfect time of year to remember Possmisslinn.

You will come to collect the kind of person they am. They standing on the cliffside before ragin river brown and supplanted in the amber moonlight beautiful and stenchful in character. Green lights do not escape your notice. Green lights sing carols in the breaking path you walk tonight.

She was helpful yesterday I admit, but I will not be letting her inside the red chamber of Lud before she sinks six feet underground. It's because I am individualistic and my nose is red, and my booze is pink, and my blood is spilling. And my anchor is not tied on my end, and my twisted smile doesn't spy on shy glens. And the open moor was bashful in the moonlight. And the stubborn gore was pressing on my headlight. And we came before we walked into the noonlight, and my own belief was not the same as sunlight. My glowing stick was lost inside the crypt light and its abrasive pitch was drowning before we write. Stolen back before the open cursed still blight was not a growing splash inside the same right. To ask of what is right is to admit that all is wrong and open lesions passively rectified my gong. Seventeen dolls ago. Fast, hungry, luscious with need. Stinging nettles break on my windshield. Sterling blasts corrupt my sulking heart. Glass pictures are stolen before they reveal the true shape of things. And the nervous tissue bath system broke me before it showered me with appraisal and liberated me from this sand trap.

Climbing higher and higher the oak snapping at its reins. Before it runs straight off the cliff it turns and breaks but too late to save its firstborn sun. In sheltering yourself you also sheltered me from a life inside the public consciousness.

First came the sea lions and then came the draft. They left poor striped girl singed and stuck knobblet tinged with frays of stamina leather eating away at her ginger wax heart; leaving passages and birthplace leaving succulent beatrice on the floor. They left in the afternoon when nobody could stop them, they stormed out the door with fire in their broken little pupils and stinging knees pertinent inside the looking glass chamber. They left for a long while and didn't come back again before the war was over, the war is never over. Lost wandering the plains at gorgeous state highs they were also bursted clean open with large fat drops of napalm grown and sheltered inside the carcass of a storm god. Peas in the pods broke sorry again please, stay at the porchside window and watch as his neck is replaced with little pink rivulets, singing yonder byways suck me home lovely home. Run if you can, sprint jagged crocodiles in the soilbed and leave the house where you left it when you left it for the draft. Blowing icy needles inside your plastic leather overcoast.

Reel 'em in succker, taste that biting wind. The drafty shore sings shanties to the beaten bodies of fishers massaging themselves with the thrusting log flavoured shortcake.
	In the bar during early morning when children come with their parents to the cafe.

Sapped of all this vast vista. It is glowing spirits brown and delightfully pink, it is blowing up big stars of orange firelight and drowning them in the spirits of night's eve. Tempered with stones that are personal and fast, tempered slowly and still purposeful with fingernails flush with bluish light. Her frozen corpse was found just north of the fishing shanty at uhd.

The pastel glaciers swim in the soup sluggish and so long. This terse passage will have to wait for a more green around the gills traveller than I am

shifting in my chair the purpose of the human intellect is the categorization and division of reality. It is the creation of fields on which to walk it is the bleeding death of reality in fragments and rotting pieces. The purpose of the human intellect is the death of truth it is the admitting all is wrong in the world and it is piercing the serpent veil. The nature of enlightenment itself is the shadows cast no less than the things seen in the floodlight newly tuned for modern circumstances. There can never be the death of shadow because the death of shadow is the death of light also. The nature of silence the nature of death is the nature of blinding enlightenment also, climbing purses for a ballpark overlook.

When it rips the burning temptation inside you understand that there is beauty in the world and you will never find it. It is because you are filth on the birch of the overcoat. And you descend even still further from your crop of geese and circumstantial cur before you lunge kneeling at the heavensent blanket of snow. The little wet and the feet circuits on the rain. Lack good tidings lack them and try to tell me I am at fault again, or will you succumb to the inevitability that all that is alive will die and you too are nothing more than a broken cur. Stemmed out from succor, sticking brightly inside of high niddles gross it was and vast in proportion to the tablework stopping breathing on the foreground. Heavy buttress, heaving rain, singing baeuty singing in the bathtub she cut her wrists in. Singing in the toaster she bleeds within, sinking on par highways and bursting outwards with ferosity onto the nervous system, the nervous infrastructure. Purrs graciously, writhing in the silk vat taught. Eyes water bearing teeth with amber grindtones singing high tones outwards in the shape of gracious goddesses. Beaming delight on par with steam glavier steam sinking in the knight and perking up its nautical. Barbed was the name and starry were the skylights before they were lost deep inside broken hands and kept helpfully gleaming. She too masticated breath. The pink wax fountains were to she too nursed with barren lambs. Gloss tidings.
	Temporal blood blister in the night serenade. Swimming in glass and steering clear of spine gladiator.
But nobody is looking for her and nobody will find her if she doesn't sink faster tugging on the anchor that connects her to the seabed she, lets go again. And she dreams of weasel grottoes and pink wax sculptures before her eyes begin to pop and her neck bends into her chest cavity. The fishes never drink sap water glasses without their loving textured vests. Dream strong and dream wisely or you will never dream for long. The next time she listens her ears inside her catacomb pick up the naked bawling of the drumming of the heart.