Tuesday, December 8, 2015

The Cloud

The cloud is equally mist and motion and shape. The carving skidoodles and this becomes a sentence giving a hypothesis life as a suggestion, that is to say coffee, which is a beverage, which is a tongue of the moment, which is a metaphor, which is a path on the skin. Harmony and eating are also bubbly. There’s no easy definition for night. Gambling does not lead to redemption, no, but it will lead to flames of retaliation. The paragraph rolls by on rails. Symptoms include glue, desire, correlation, and trout. There is more light in a wrinkle than you can imagine if you look closely in a mirror you will find a face of water exhibiting an impersonal glow. I will dote more on glue. I will grant that I have an interior walking among my drugs. It’s by soaring through red the mimes will come to understand us. But if we heave ourselves into abstraction the many lives carved out of the mountain have the flavor of syntax combined with the color of ice cubes, which is a kind of non-color, or ghostly vibration of milk. I don’t sneer at wrestling, I was once a wrestler myself, but I do not think that nailing a noun to a description of henna will result in anything like a philosophy. Anything written down is mentally viable, can be pictured, can be imagined, can be extruded from the mouth at a social gathering and writhe in the air like a deep prodigal thumb or ugly towel. I’m eager to enrich this thought with an insinuation involving bedsprings and rocks. Eyebrows forest the forehead for a reason. Don’t take sideburns lightly. Elvis didn’t, and look what happened to him. High collars, rhinestones, and Vegas. The mind is a funny form of energy, a rodent running a treadwheel, the chatter of rodeo clowns at a winter ski resort. People don’t normally associate revelation with the streets of Chicago, a violent place to be sure, but also a simulacrum, a parallel to hair. The sparks are a gift from John Lennon. It’s time now to search for a little grace at the airport. Nothing melts faster than ice on the wing of a plane readying for takeoff. Music solicits my ears in a dream and penumbra surrounding my buttons acts all Technicolor and hands, like the sympathy of swimming when there is granulation and taxis. That makes trumpets come into mint and jingle in truancy. I can’t say enough about eggnog. I must go now and make some wings to extol the etiquette of opinion.

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