Gloaming bought new for the occasion. Trapdoors of heartache cause batch files of debate. Oodles of concentration slip thru doorways, hatching plans. Now in plain words, now in not. There is a fist inside a glove, a glove inside a pocket. These are the times that are simply these times, not those. In the sense of opening a car door for the purpose of retrofitting the future, the future is roads to the next time. This time is caught in the fluxion, really great to hear news. There was a time when there was another time, but this fact lights difficult in this town.
Tuesday, December 18, 2012
Priest or door mat, revered minister, perfect rabbi, this sort of thing. Then wanting to know more, and equaling that more with anything, producing an addendum calling for further study, which is an underline process in the wild. So that, viz., paint on something that formerly went unpainted. This inspires diction, the main coast to which we roll on hearty, knowing waves. Political priest, solon, sour taste, all that. The map mentions places but not the peopling. People people the earth, you know. You read that too, while in line, listening to latestness. This outlasts that, and always will.
they were blowing up, in rhythms called blankets. they were strict in sweating dust and under the overpass. they were in the details of fog, more intent than daydream. the blowing up is a factory of precise secular regime. it will mean the dead spot of a drum, where you don't want to go. god and sinners reconciled, backstage. spellcheck chases every ensuing moment, every click and a bull let thru.