nO outside exists for this perfect Eleven. It is number, arranged, transported to specific. And it counts, tho just barely. It is reason to be more than ten, it includes. it seems more than the nine that almost. It means language, if a dry dust. Or a planet tamed by numbers, all of which are One. on this Eleven we think of poor people, unelected monarchs, creases in the smirk. Eleven becomes the afterthought before thought, outside the careful cage, urging interest. Ten is the normal incline of numbers in compact human definitions. Eleven scours solely for the unintegrated nonce of Eleven. The presiding thought describes monolith, the heaven of stupid. Stupid Times Eleven guides the vote.
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