Hallucinations deepen and I pack my clothes. My robin is pretty. The endurance of feeling is unpredictable. Coffee juggles my nerves below pounds of cheerful light. The insoluble propinquity of memory is sewn by time. I spit propellers beneath the clouds. Heartache drips presumption. The sleep of angels moves us wide-eyed into the sublime. A New Bohemia. A place where the sand is soft and gravity bursts with eclipse. Pearl earrings repose on the floor. The seashore is an open structure. Sidewalks hold the world. Arms reaching singing out of their sleeves reaching for ablution. Glasses smeared with butter acquire the look of coughing and war. This will describe itself as a medication and then act in a play by an anonymous sparkle. My reactions to Renoir are sympathetic to rocks. There can be nothing without something to make nothing nothing for nothing without something is nothing and that is something. When the words grow tense we discover a light switch in which the screws have turned brown with age. The Excitement Sisters write a song about garbage. Description begins to mushroom. Daylight serves the slop of chaos. Without a little anger to fuel my grammar I’m just another nerve in the ramification of life. I curve by pronoun. A vaporous mood becomes a motion and that motion becomes an orange rolling across a table in a bistro. The careful thread of a wobbly personality skidoodles with all its muscle intact. I go to the bank. I drive a Subaru. A woman complements my Subaru. I rob the bank. The Subaru serves me well. Life continues. The hallucinations continue. We grow rattan. The sun shines down. Our skin is slippery. Reflections later turn gray in the mind. Gray is ok but blue is better. The imagery of heaven is all about flowers. The laundry drips by the shore. There is the shore of life and the shore of death and both are the same shore. I feel a hunger I don’t quite understand. It’s a hunger but not a hunger for food. Before I became a language I tried my luck at iodine. Despair is the flip side of hope. It’s a lesson I learned the hard way. It’s no wonder that I like philodendrons. The philosophy of the philodendron is dark and slow and carries more light than water. If there were no light there would be no darkness. There would only be fish. The comics are a kingdom of dots. I will build a blob that explains everything. I will explain granite and brass and the power of chiaroscuro. The blob will confirm the sounds of Montmartre. Blood is metaphysical. It carries oxygen and iron and oozes out of the skin when the skin is punctured or cut. You have to pay attention to these things. Mud exemplifies stamina. Silk warrants silk. Grumbling needs blue. Evocations of pink and violet. There is elegance in equilibrium but none in whistling. The horses yearn for a maneuver with lightning if it leads to confusion and apparels the hills with grazing. No universe is exact. The cuticles affirm this. You can yank a tomato from a bin of produce but you must rely on extraversion if you plan to expand the fluctuation of pronouns in the abalone lounge. This is why Kurt Cobain played his guitar in a cupboard. There is no ambiguity in footwear. There is the spirit to consider, and the lumber of reminiscence. Everything else is just silence and birthdays.
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