'A to the K' #A (1st cut of novella length archived work)

The joyless occasion of another friend gone out, a friend slipped from Kanyon’s hands to his head like a factory clickstamp, flesh reduced to memory in a machination imposed upon him and always thickening in a living wall of vine kind of way, and he places his hands solemnly on the book on the table and searches himself the volume of his mind for a question to keep life going inside, to balance the horrible offset, and the balancing act little fun, just a frantic clawing off and on of the knobs besiding the faucet for a bearable temperature in the days of declining water supply. When he came back to the room, there was one thing Kanyon felt in the moment of an unfeeling boy finally and wonderfully feeling… his bare feet in rapture on the hardwood floors of his apartment… alas, just a projection. And so he finished listening politely to the man in the three-piece suit on the subject of his next possession, smiled and turned his back, reached for his Stetson some kind young girl decorated the wall’s hook with, and left that house and its poor old floors under endless night of wall to wall off-white, with some sad song  on his own happy, full lips. Because there was fresh love in his heart for her, Agatha. His best friend’s girlfriend.


I want you Agatha, he wanted to tell her, and which he wanted more was difficult to determine: in the moment he wanted to tell her most,  but in the grande picture he wanted her more than anything he could say to her. Alas, the taboo. One month was not enough.
He held her hands in his, her little hands but strong, and rubbed his thumbprints over her knuckles that had gone through envious girls and bruised them. She was tough. They could not hurt her unless she let them, and no, she wouldn’t feel guilty for bloodying a bitch’s nose. These girls had no heart! She liked most to get them curled up in a ball on the ground holding their sides, so they knew exactly how she felt! And then, she lay her chest down on the ground beside them, down in the dirt where they wept, and said softly, “I’m not going to kick you, I don’t kick people when they’re down!”
And she left them there.
No wasting her time dwelling on what was said and done and gone, either. Only the bruises on her knuckles now faded from red to bluish to purple black and back remembered clearly how that sea of feeling felt. Life was not so clean anymore.
This is what he loved about her, beside simply her name and her knuckles, this wisdom she had or trusting of herself to roll with what happened, whatever at all. This strength of hers, he never knew a girl to have such strength. Strength was not normally what turned him on.
In silence she knew he yearned for her. In silence she guessed, and she knew he could not say. Thus they fell in together... and not unwitnessed by spirits unseen but not unacknowledged - yet still in that electric rush of air up the spine, well, words need not touch this.

[The image used in this post is owned by http://www.ghost-pictures.org , please visit their site]

Community works itself out. In Fridays aura.

Something about the community worked itself out. There was the general morning apathy and stretching over the raisin bran for the lucky charms. Maybe something to live for, these not so lucid mornings. Coffee was for certain, pot never empty. Morning weary turn to jittery. Have some more, the voice implores. You listen very carefully, while some other you but different tells a story. You choose which one you hear. Soon he will realize and stop telling you. Too early to be selling you on whatever brought this on. I mean the broken silence of gray dawn. Cannot be unbroken, the community seems to know, and the sound of pots and pans becomes a common backdrop for the day getting busier. The bubbles of awakedness begin to rise and pop on contact with some air. Thoughts begin to rise to mind, eyes to focus and then stare. The community wide and open begins to take form and crystallize. Those still in bed now instinctively start to rise. To this day begin with prayer, for some, others go outside. They claim behind a chinese cigarrette, they came to get fresh air. The mops take a swim before they hit the deck. Everyone clears out of the wet room, will only take a sec. The dry mouths start to salivate, while waiting for the waffles. The popping up of yellow bread some will closely monitor. Others let the cycle expire, too long, the fluff will blacken if not catch fire. Water splashes faces and affirmations, laced up laces. This community is right on. It knows. The wisdom extends from one friend to another, the knowing naturally arises and grows. Little children: up on your toes! This is friday. The day. Take us into immersed reality. With brightness of affect and positive-charged mentality. Blend into the community in your own special way. The community seeks itself -- seeks unity.

u know youre within range by the dissonant singing of your gps into the cave that once was the now extinct relic we called 'intuition'

yes it may be ironic. like sunny side eggs on a fog strewn mornin. ironic or just real funny. eggs and condensed air both kinda runny. guess what? im in the mix, the same label same category same genetic predisposition as you. its true. so i can take liberties aint that right? cause at the end of the day you and i still gotta be tight? yes.

maybe ill kick on your old tires? dress up and laugh at your sad chase of long lost desires? sometimes i look for where they hid my wires, its true.  i sense air pockets, blank gaze, im turnin a shade blue...my ends, they just gotta be fraysed, i can feel it...my mind these days stuck on mode: delayed. how could there not be wires? mine are frayed, about to catch fire i just feel it. like cars hemming me into tight spaces, close to the point where the tracers have traced it, got my # got me figured. banging into both my fenders, with rigor.

all i can do is listen to whats going on, cant you hear it? all the latest technology save us now....or redirect us please, to a less trafficked site...right now? we're nowhere near it.

Shhhh! wait now listen, can u hear it? they truly answered my cry. oh no. insert thats the laundry machine gettin the clothes clean, how they does that? spinning fabric around in anti-gravity chamber. add water then heat, change direction on a dime. these machines got over on us, by design. to let us perceive just how far from FINE we are; our timing belts wrapped around person or place, not the time. 

toss my throat at that magnum of cheap red wine some machine corked to keep fresh for me. to brave the stale sentient being production. scratching my lotto scratchers so to feign adrenaline. cash anticipation in my dome. 2 tylenol almost second nature like walking home. ought to switch to aspirin to prolong the suffering. Get something between me and it, yes, call it bufferin. too scared to die, yet a breath away from her, too...she smells just like animals, death is a zoo! just one wrong jaw move away, we are today, post entrance of chinese chicken wing. tastes so good, thats the recall! euphoric as ever, ten fucking feet tall! my addictively organized mind like butter she melts. begins to forget names, places, things, right before reason goes under. all sense now are 'felt'. Hey, enjoy it! Cop a feel on your senses, divert time and all tenses.

Water is what we made of, that i know for sure. this is the thread that i conjured to relate. so i could give you all of my unfiltered state of mind. had to suggest some common ground or kind. sorry if i misled you, then again your path was weak. boiled down from chlorine, of nitrous oxide we just reek! Like they put us in the radiator of my Impala in the Sahara, thats about sums up our chances to endure. See i always get nihilistic until twenty after four. I slave away all day satisfying my desires. Some computer is out there putting out my fires. I manicure my nails, skin, hair, and toes, thats how urban life simply goes. Busy waiting for another photo ID to download... while sucking on some java joes. This gotta be the deep well of shame, man, always trying to recapture identity.  searching google and wikipedia for clues...all the sunshines been compressed and converted; to deep barebottom betty blues.

And naked once the jeans come off, blue. the green tint of skin once golden, gets my ass to laundry folding. so to hide the self i try to find. oh? is it that time again? cell provides some fluorscent digital comfort, in essence,  time again to unload self, rewind. drop back on the pillowtop favors, luxury is stuffed like the duck getting down like goose, or the rubber and latex down with hoes, now how do we spell that? ho or hoe? fuck if i know, knoe, just give the blowjob in return for the dough, hough. fuck its not rocket science, just take off your cloughs! nobody knows and thats the reality. your knowledge my friend was the first fucking casualty. secondary to awareness, my friend. what a reward consciousness has been!

everything like its been done before. nothing knew, just another tour through this purgatory of progressive tidal movement back to helpless empowerlessness via our tech savvy sauce...as transparent a decline as that glue that replaced the rue of brown gravy. yet were still working on behavior modification. best way of doing seems like taking a longer vacation. hey! its so you can see what your eating silly! not forking around your plate, now, really! embrace it like your own kind, your kin. or we shall leave your ass behind -- to suck on the fins of each extremity.

well! five alive! seven eleven, now here have we recourse to our self-construed heaven! isolated on some freeway left behind. pay the sufferin family oldnews arguing no more necessary obligatory bloodtied mind! this kinda sufferin is just too kind. as be the buds in my shirt pocket. roll up with slow burns and blast the final frontier of brain cells off the burnin lootin red of my eye socket.

then hitchhike against common decency. maybe they pick me up for black market organ shopping -- atleast i manifest the latest currency. a risk something raw! animal-like teeth cut kind of danger like metal meeting hacksaw. only chance to live like sentients used to, happening with seconds to spare. and all this time you thought well of what you wear, you thought life to exist via sedentary lifestyle, you found life in a chair. what a surprise when you fell over backward. woke your ass up better than ringtones you freeloaded. using your mind in profound fashion, left in a body half-dead.

well anyway, this has been a fun roasting of us, another thing to do on lifes lethargy bus. no seat belts, know why? cause deep down inside we all wanna die! oh thats horrible! how could i say it? i shook up some conservative huffington post hater crowd. any talk about suicide goes past the politics, see? theyre mingling with a liberal crowd as they carve up your ribs. fuck you! im not lobster, how dare you bring bibs! whoa? im still talking and thinking and breathing? how could this be in deaths cold cold season? i cant tell, dont know, have no feeling or vision. i know only im the subject of popular derision. and soon to be digest like mare cow of bison. wait! i may afterall not win, but could there be a decision? cause how can i be here, how am i still livin? i feel more alive than i did in my body. possible life started when backward land ended. all those people i called family were simply befriended, embodied, kind of dying.

im not making this up, no, im not even trying. its obvious here, as they approach with their sporks, coming at my old body is like escape from new york! no more bloody humid chaos, no more jam packed weeks building up for just a day off! i can move about freely in time, space, and atomic fucking energy! the human race a distant memory, my vehicle? discard it, to the salvation army cause im saved alright. my ass is grass and im fine. watching those motherfuckers fall in line to dine on me. eat the world you suckers, set fire to the sky. ask why what when how whomever you feel like it, for just another lie y'all tell yourselves, so scared to die.

i guess i was too, i guess i feel for you. cause little do you know, and lots do you not. the battles you thought to win, the pointless battles we all fought. the truth and integrity we all sought. all for naught. all for naught. go home, my friends, go let gravity take ya. let the summer sun in the window to soothe that heart, heart that aches, huh? bleed your passion out, cleaning up after. here it is, last place i thought to find it...that spirit i was after. hey! guess what? now i feel so much better! to get that load of crap of my mind, set fire to it like a letter. let it go and escape into the atmosphere.

sorry if you inhaled. i did not mean to provoke a tear. or tear into your sense of well-being. all is for being not for doing nor for knowing. my deciduous words fell like leaves no longer growing. discard them with weeds you pull from your gardens, overgrowing. and we can still be friends right? return to the seeds we were sewing?

i like this, sewing seeds with you. i like it. just being with you. knowing nothing. laughing and then crying. getting angry as hell!!! then more laughing. just fine with some TLC, smiling, back to sewing....all of a sudden it comes over me, natural -- flowing.

caution! love strikes early & hard... #III of III parts

Honestly what happened to bring about the unitive moment? old and new believers alike want to know. For all had changed ever slightly. The untouchables of the urban synched up to such a height. The energy was out of control washed in optimism! and could not be contained. half a dozen cops were hospitalized due to fright. The channel was you. SO live and true. Sensitive and fresh. Grass green and sky blue. Naturally you disliked the discomfort initially. being with self and self alone. before you felt the impact.  felt like monotone.

Until you realized to let her work through you. TO attune to her great energies. the spirits looking over you...staring down your enemies. The waves they hit you at skin level, or to say you received them there first in the short wave of chills coming over you unexpectedly and not synched to the lifting of window & letting of air. all was still. silent. real. a sudden latent capacity to feel at deeper levels.

like that abstract tangible, the feeling of love, slowly coming over her quickness! what she felt in the moment she realized years later, was akin to the feeling she got when she happened upon a dreadlock in a small apartment way north of the city. A West Indian from Brooklyn, stretching skin over drums... spilling dawn out through his thumbs.  she had been with a friend, along for the ride, always felt good by his side. Then the music, it touched her, so hard that she cried.


Dreadlock was Rasta with African drum. Her sitting silently lent her to deep feelings that arose and sourced back off the skin. He spat out his tobacco which then hit the tin. She became an unlikely touch stone by where he could know her. He suddenly felt how his heart reside in her. And wanted just to get up and sit right beside her. Her touch  moving in and out from the edge...she felt she was balancing right there on the ledge.

She knew that to do so was uncomfortable too. She need only watch over her fears and just wait. For what might unfold might just be high rate. Then over it sometime to something beyond (which inevitably played out on the street unitive bond). She found this hot, the style he played. His kinda style was of strength and of faith. One of two times maybe, he uplifted her so, she came up from where sitting. out of the woodwork. Raised to motion by the rhythm, maybe to dance or just to see.

Sometimes things work out just the way that they should. Sometimes good is bad and bad is good. Dread really wanted her, yes, the day that he met her. She wished she had known, but then it would have upset her. The way all moved through her would have likely been distracted. And he made no clear attempt to get her, no remarks for her attention. This was not part of his nature, to mention. She saw only his smile, which her memory could rely on. And the beating of his strong heart through his African drum. The very first time, she felt a little insecure. In that tiny little room with nothing to do, but wait on her friend and pass time as it arise. She maybe once looked in his eyes. They were smiling too. She worried guys were talkin trash, setting sites & amped up; GPS on her assets was the usual order. Made her nervous, insecure. Made her tighten her border.


She recalled all this in her mind, still wondered and amazed. The feeling she felt was love you see, come on in twenty day. Hella fast to fall in love! She was grateful but amazed, to fall in love in only seconds if not days. Like riding to the sun on the suns rays. Like feeling hella fine right after a feeling of malaise. Ununsual, unexpected, not impossible, not rejected. She embraced what did transpire, he embraced her nice. The meeting of their eyes evolved to passion fueled by fire. and desire.   ---fin --

caution! love strikes early & hard... #II of III parts

Before the big dance of the day, the street woken up by the local channel of our crazy girl so mad in the continuum one moment when love reignited with little forewarning. Locked in with his bicep she held half of by hand. Oh, did i forget to tell you when she did her pole dance, a handsome young man decided to was worth a chance. See her nails painted passion across this the shared land? He ballerina skills were not lost on him. She noticed his skin so close to hers was tanned.

They shared step synchronization to the tune of the band. The others around them they parted like C's (semicircles created when theOoohs came apart). Why? because they could do so and yet not fall apart! They found she turns to energy, turns to pinesap, love she does, in a moment. Conducive to trance state for subtle integration. like blending of language across two different nations. Their forms a dialect shared there in the crosscurrent. something rare and unique. black and white thought deterrent. Often a very strong held current.



Thus was her life of the bars of continuum. Midtone gray, half and half, a place where two meet. love hits you both, like collision... to complete.

Before this? never happened! what could she have been? going about life with all those evolving and devolving aspects of her self roaming around inside her and expressed like a fire? how it looks now is sad: weak persona. some fad.

What else you gonna do? they wondered around her. this when she frequented the old bars of fragment nation. 'youre a complicated one', some men said once they found her.  they saw it in her eyes, they said, looking into spliced fragment of color, between mirrors between booths between songs of aged youth. For her the experience so often repeated just got duller. some attracted their selves to her via sexual innuendo. others almost offended themselves, gaining courage sniffing blow. c-c-co-com-coming up down to meet her, coming updown to selfdefeated space. sweating their bodies all over the place. get a towel! no get two. and so nice not to meet you. the drip you may love, will never land between these thighs. sorry if my blunt saying got a rise. Please , now, have mercy, lift your eyes!


That was the story then. You cannot care too much how they handle you, girl, can you now? will u ever? cause you found caring that way was soon (lost & forever). that part of you so constant, your compartmentalized heart. it would turn over quickly when they hotwired you & made you an art. (delicate) form u became, like a rainbow. captured by their eyes. existing only in changes of weather. then dies.

Subject of stare, said forensics. traced to greeting of perp, then the buy-in. they act sweet. catch your colors, make resemblance. then go after your trust. they lust. its too late. their proximity comes to land as they're shining you on... then they painlessly corrode you = your aura starts to rust. you dissipate completely when the page is replete with their version of you they now own and put behind glass. not needing the real you, not caring how you feel, boo. when they ditch you.


So sad who you were, coming on to yourself. who you were, to become who you are and will be. you hang out with yourself awhile from the past and you see. black and white were the colors you wore every day. just a recollection of source, so its not lost to midtone gray. such a cost, these extremities, these addictive far outs. please! did u really need a half hour? just to find your fucking keys? you gotta handle this time somewhat meditative, free of judgment. with some ease. honey is the sweetest ending to the violent sour workings of the honeybees.


u compared u to now. u saw the evolution. older now but in solution. in the mix, ya, making motion. radiating waves of source vibration. life slowed down by choice, eyes wide open.  so you tried. you turned off the damn cell for a change. suddenly your breathing improved. subtle but noticed. you lit the incense, 'butter' was your choice as you melting into self-reflection. a clear connection. you got into sweats. you cleared some time, your head, the chair of the cat, the table of clutter. you opened the shutters. lifted the window to draw some cool air. conducive (you thought) to make you more aware... (continue to part III).

caution! love strikes early & hard... #I of III parts

Love struck, yes it struck her, while she roamed the bars of continuum. In a moment love struck her, and yes she fell for the feeling... the one (that) rose up and took her to ceiling. The elevated sensation just as quickly had her kneeling...
So profound she momentarily lapsed her reason: in definitive por favor to feeling. She tried to equalize properly, not make a scene. The waythemenstare --thethingsEYESsay! had her in some steady state of disarray.

There in that bar of continuum, she must have hit a wall. Just the one bounced her back to the other side of the layout. You know, where the DJ got played out. She was embarrased of herself, for such a high drama, she tried to break it off some. to share and disperse, that feeling so longlastin' heavy now, she gotta getup & curse! (now) 'feeling! disperse!' then slip it off her as she focused, hand over her chest to promote her heart chakra.  She knew it was out there by changing tones of the vodka. She smiled when they felt it, those who drank of continuum in open sincerity of dissociative identity. They understood, she saw, in the taking on of what she shook off. She lifted her skirts and dropped her head so politely... the words emitting from lasers and light beams: 'for your friends. for your health. for the knowledge of your self.'

The white hair man behind her smiled a gold tooth show, and added 'wealth"! which then got garnished with 'happy fulfillment' by some signature young tattooed ballerina with two tone pink hair. intense was her stare. shouted from almost a block away, up there 7th and market studio just a sidestep off OddFellows dismal haunts in old SF, just above the methdone clinic and the dawn scene of so dubbed Honduran foil passed for cash routine in front of the donut shop (one hip and hop from the check cashing spot.)..five o ya know crept around that corner quite alot.

Today the surprise element was on their side, as all eyes and voices in the underground layer survived to attest. something larger than any of them was causing a unitive moment no one would ever believe. the goddess had empowerment for the disenfranchised up her sleeve. they didnt care, no matter if you non-believed! ... 5150 could not separate the fresh braided consciousness of those who held the least of socioeconomic strata; to have any less would be impossible, it clearly stated in tax zone analytic data. and now to all connect would only throw them off more. whose gonna care for the the ones in the seams, written off half the day, junkie john on route to pill hill,  hallucination whore in the liquor store. talking to john non-verbally blocks apart, speaking from their core.

What struck them via her channeling source of energy? Again: do we solemnly dub her LOVE? More we know, less we know love. We can plant and then grow it. We can hold it in or openly show it. The variable flowers bloom up to eyes of urban amazement. Love's ground can seem fallow and empty of life. Self -healing defies the Western knife. Surgery takes back seat to green tea. Shotgun called by Omega three.  So love (that what struck her and then emanated like light) sometimes clear and dangerous potents, struck the streets hard like rain  in its universal cadence. Let it be known, love struck her, just once, in a moment. and merci to the goddess who gives back some to prayers of misfortune.

And she found it painful to express sometimes, love. To recollect sometimes, to reexperience all the truth about her, she required concentration secondary to cup of clam chowder. the flood of diverse feelings she cast, way back then...when her youth was just blazing a trail to young men. Bleeding colors of waves of compiled feeling. wholehearted. spiritual. again, find her kneeling.

A fable...the End Enders

Picture them rolling downhill, the EndEnders u know. taking a fall, destined for spillsville. where the Seller of Fantasy runs with the Puller Apart, affairs overseen by Overlooke OfftheChart. Who apparently (to no ones knowledge) misinformed them, our Endenders. ('abused them!' the NeoEnder faction engenders). Thrilled, used, spilled, oozed - defragmented by and by. The rumors of EndEnders takes in with the tide. The mother of all tidepools lets out like a SIGH. Some say they unanchored & went west, to pacific. Some call this theory frantically desperate spam of Pretenders. A faraway distant cousin of our socalled EndEnders... A primitive GPS tracker on some gigabit milkcarton, suggestive of 'train' then waffles to 'river'. Holdouts put nonmonetary wages on which, then never deliver. Forensics fills in the fate of EndEnders: Somewhere way back where some egg greased the bacon. This spatula drips theory EndEnders got taken! somewhere equatorial, cirrhotic of liver. drinking to forget. then forgetting, turned Forgotten! Tapped right out of the question still. Into the answer mould. Do tell, no one asks. And to no one is it told. This is The End (per directive of Ender).

Above Image reprinted from source: http://meganmcmillan.typepad.com/photos/


for those who care to witness the aforementioned fables creation:

Draft #1 (originelle!)
the tired, the cold, the weary world wanderers in all weather, mission: keep it together...or latenight tv watching headspace ponderers, the restless, heated, insomniac omnivores (of all entertainmentaccessible). need not go in tummy to be digestable. a mentalmotionmarket of unmentionables. or those with thirsts unquenchable draining rivers dry. crying eyes dry. witness the calloused feet of the wanderers: cleaned spotless in the desert by soul trafficking spirit launderers. so to wander some more.

Draft Deux!
Unity, community. then what stands apart? the queen of hearts? the joker of television? the seller of fantasy? the puller apart? releaser of confusion! thrilled, used, spilled, oozed - defragmented. outside community pax quantum pax panic...puzzled by pacific, community gets violent. Needtoknowit they must, and try for the atlantic. desperate! frantic! for holywholesymbolictruth. for the youth! Pressure made manifest: A fragile question mark, anonymously delivered in lobster tail zipper. GPS tracking shows only 'train then river'. What? theygomadly. Yes? No? get lost! They say then They R. somewhere equatorial, cirrhotic of liver. drinking to forget. forgotten, better yet. tapped right out of the question still. Forever preserved in Atlantic freshwater chill.

Draft #3
Unity, community. rolling downhill. taking a fall, destined for spillsville, where the Seller of Fantasy runs with the Puller Apart, overseen are their affairs by the Releaser of Confusion. who apparently to no ones knowledge abused them. Thrilled, used, spilled, oozed - defragmented by and by. The mothers of all human race let out SIGH. Outside the community pax quantum pax panic...puzzled by pacific, community may get violent. Needtoknowit they must, no more will be silent. Search leads to atlantic. desperate! frantic! A GPS tracking on modern day milkcarton, shows only 'train then river' by what path they had taken. Honestly if we must; They R. somewhere equatorial, cirrhotic of liver. drinking to forget. forgotten, worse yet. tapped right out of the question still. Wikipedia net casts wide... empty, nil. whereabouts indeterminate. atlantic deep chill.

Final Draft (we end where we started)
Picture them rolling downhill, the EndEnders u know. taking a fall, destined for spillsville. where the Seller of Fantasy runs with the Puller Apart, affairs overseen by Overlooke OfftheChart. Who apparently (to no ones knowledge) misinformed them, our Endenders. ('abused them!' the NeoEnder faction engenders). Thrilled, used, spilled, oozed - defragmented by and by. The rumors of EndEnders takes in with the tide. The mother of all tidepools lets out like a SIGH. Some say they unanchored & went west, to pacific. Some call this theory frantically desperate spam of Pretenders. A faraway distant cousin of our socalled EndEnders... A primitive GPS tracker on some gigabit milkcarton, suggestive of 'train' then waffles to 'river'. Holdouts put nonmonetary wages on which, then never deliver. Forensics fills in the fate of EndEnders: Somewhere way back where some egg greased the bacon. This spatula drips theory EndEnders got taken! somewhere equatorial, cirrhotic of liver. drinking to forget. then forgetting, turned Forgotten! Tapped right out of the question still. Into the answer mould. Do tell, no one asks. And to no one is it told. This is The End (per directive of Ender).

THis piece goes out to:
Dearly beloved End Enders, now parted.

S.S.M.J.N. - # II (Sister Story To Miss January Nineteenth)

Part II

She knew the score. Ask her. She will use the fill option of eyes for you to see said score...ZERO. This was a positive development (lacking + attribute). Nothing hung in the balance +/- . The lack of tension was gripping. No one could be synched even in this mindspace eddy born of a full moon tide. A graveyard of life. The victims of competitive contrast got character assassinated every minute. The lives of the unacknowledged felt somehow dead. She would have to explain herself further, she knew, or else risk hospitalization. 3 hots a shrink and a cot seemed an upscale place to reside versus the communique vacuum that needed not to suck!

She still looked hot even with her upper body hunched over a desk in the corner of some wooden room, submerged into sleepless ink splashes of fanciful rhetoric. This was getting heavy like her heart. She had just found the perfect analogy for zero, to explain to all those expecting something so long as it was not nothing. All those left in the high & dry communique gap. Ciudad De Juarez was evil enough to cross her mind, for a place. She could use this to describe the impasse that had grown up between them so horribly like choking weeds. Just north of Chihuahua dogs eyelids are traded for higher consciousness and a nervous disposition, she inked. They walked through life eyes wide open; this made them all nervous - what they saw. She stopped. the ink collected under her smile in its extension.

She even had a knot under her left collar bone. well, it was always there, just now made itself known. Ambulance chaser of knots! she cried out. O why did i not choose the hots with the cots? Some dreadful emotional thinking? of saving lives despite going off the road just considering it? saving minion asses from character assignation of code? What a drama, what a screenplay. Do we wanna claymation anime? Red hot. Like they want it. Fashion divas out to flaunt it. Her Judgment ran over herself and all minions. god is dead! said affected might work for a fill-in. Good option, the heresy, when all else might fail. Like she felt of herself the day she got thrown in jail.

We never tire of her, her suffering intrigues us. We search her real thorough like planets for water. If we find what we are looking for, it must be administered intravenous. The arteries are softened like the setting of the sun. Linear without intricacy is how their creator apparently created them. The venous system nearly surfaced,a complicated procedure. Like rolling the R off your tongue when you mouth misdemeanor. Oh jail, see her mind was fine tuned there, she sometimes spaced out with a soft focused wall stare. Where would she go then? Where people they stared at you. You stared back at them, so many stares to contend. One stared in the mirror at self just to see, you see. The mirror was created by internal means. Everyone knows theres no mirrors in jail, no one seen. But she kept it to herself. Her cell reverie plus mirrors. When she went cellular, things changed. Not just the angle of light over time. Something much deeper, to which she resigned. Communique got defragged or loosened out of her knot. No further levels detached could she go. She had attained the isolative status of a quarantined nun. In the social stratosphere she gained the status marked 'done!'

In this extremity of mindbody disconnection, developed a sea change! embodiment of form. media would spin it as a kind of formal ressurection. But no wonder shes untouchable! this wild girl we see. half drooling in a corner of some wooden sea. she has subtle fashions of making her point. In zero land she floated this explanation point. Parentheticals gave way to solid ground, concrete with a point. She knew shit now she had never known. If it was late nineteen eighties she would have rocked the microphone. The plants in photosynthesis share her knowing, so full grown...