Time is ornithological. It flies. It honors nightclubs and noise. To explain this it’s necessary to say something about infinity. Infinity has no napkins not even hair. It is the reason that bruises are crabby and haggard and that there is one bean. That the alchemist’s height reflects plumbing from chains is providence. It is a sublimate of the new walk the alchemy teaches. Further volumes are bottled in red until they exceed cinnamon. But if the whale turns wife than an idea of ownership extends the warranty to gut. That which the flood renders is rather immediate to the French we abandon. Fat examinations are was to the is of a skull. Paradigm this red. The fugues teeming between intonations of Apollinaire are riveted in gravity, like pickles. Gluttony is more like glasses. A crab contrasting that hammer with the world is swollen to indeterminacy. The morning bends into fish. In comes employment squirting grout like a rubbed tube. We put the olives in absence so effervescently that a mouth speaks of ambiguity upside-down in a room of kerosene thrilling and slow. Personality occasions a more residual evergreen of the animal chair. The bulb is washed for loops. Nothingness stinks of eyes. Duty begs for grandeur but pathos thrills with spoons. Fiber and cloth and destiny. Spectral apples based on the strength of being hugged by existence until the morality of bone heaves with winter and the abstraction machine carries its jellyfish into the sanctity of metaphor. I am imposed at declension. Space itself is ugly until it serves to excite gravity to inseminate our abstractions with granite. And this is triangles. Just pure and simple cotton. Never mind the oars. Or the wars. Successions of protoplasm tickle the biology of cause until it opens within a sack of pretzels. And then it becomes more like syntax and is accentuated by veins. I am feeling like a sorcerer does who labors to produce a formula for Portugal. Many of my emotions are another slow story on its way to allegory. And this causes birds in the neck to come out of the mouth as birds. Or words. Or fingers smeared with starlight. An emotion flooded with eyeballs scratches this chiaroscuro and makes it pavement. This is why paradigms don’t invoke stoves. They’re more like gluing the rain together. And the blast behind this is pharmaceuticals. The heart of the café is excused by steam. This is so that the mirrors reflect the ooze within and the insights unlock.