In darksome advantage, nightmarish advance, the mysterious figure, imminent, cloaked and uncommon, soggy when crunchy was expected, sought me, timelessly chased me, beckoning with moment and meaning, across deserts and desolations, thru nights and darker nights, amidst starless exhaust and the crumbs of commodity, till finally, as all suns went dark, all sons of the trenchant fathering, the wasted clock tower moaning one last peel, and terror could only be semaphore and true, like budget cuts and debt ceiling, the figure caught me, stopped me, a father of invoice and remit now, the sepulchral voice of ghostly dark nuance, gaggingly ghastly, a scram and depopulation like a thousand wobbling screams tho silent as a toad's grave, towering over me, an in opportune skyscraper in colloquy with destitution, with jet black eyes and noisome licorice abatement, bony skeletal hand extended towards me, j'accuse and oh my god, holding, proffering, like the most last of last rites, there before me, pale and wraithlike, the hand’s burden, a pair of socks. Shee-it, I had forgotten my socks!
From the thing itself, beyond seasoned aptness. Life is like living but blurred by you were listening. Aspect ratio telemetry in myriad languages smooth as rocks approaches time to look. Words piece together things or things find words. Endlessness is a choice, written big in words as shiny as geese. Words simply take the time in radiation and radical point. Stein wrote the heft of nothing special, start there or whatever. You can slowly adjust the franchise, commodity's inner workings. Subglacial quips, subliminal washouts, frantic azure in the breeze of frosty Friday: these special sparking hallways slyly enjoin. Maybe you read too much into reading too much. Further on is where you’ll stay.
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