Funeral procession is a numb stasis. When I say I sign the logic, the bills run into children. This is the inevitable clopping sound down a hall. It isn’t like a river is clean of fray. We move on, tho it depends on a mighty emergency. The state of state is being stated. You could be morose with the emptying but how can a globe hold everything? The sides are round! The people are around. Even children could be people, if it comes to that, but they must die round circles like the rest of us. We have a contest that ranks. We are not oceanic in the civil way, only tidal excess. The symphony ends with a message from the doctor who said this is a dead child. The doctor was kidding, children don’t. The subject performed an invocation for remorse. Remorse refused the attempt.
Sunday, July 13, 2014
You are coloured by word intestate. A frequency in the spoon of pent. A rocket seems to glow with concern, but it will land. It will document some moment called today. It knows cancer the field, the finding, the human battery. This is why we have word processors.
We are bound in fashion, likely gravy, the patient seems to see something. Nothing controls the panning camera, only a canyon, only a melting aggregate of ice and nowhere. This is why we have words or no more.
They are fine the way they are or are not even home. They are not in a heaven or tone, just a room full of room to be nowhere. Your vote said so, and the doughnuts of taking leave. Language is a gross alliance. Sarah Palin tans.
Rick Perry is principal in the school of for what rights are right in the right way, today. Not only leave-taking but children. Which is worse is the saddest part.