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Jack Spicer’s Afterlife

The president’s table spoke wisely. Before he could know he was human. The sorting of people.

People like efficient machines and consumptions. The table leaks matchlessness. Because words react to thing that anyone becomes when people.

The president’s chair runs to length, because ass awaits a firm stasis, figuring the race to win is now here.

Words think of President as an almost human response, but President must rely on lower style, where everything continues as otherwise.

“You will say I will rice in the great giddy yup morning,” murmured a President, and the president figures on something. No children or good towns were repeated in the process.


The table stood for table.

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