Joke String

Ground. Leave inquiry among the leaves. Endure a bashful temptation.

Symmetry produces my shoes, but my shoes are nuanced and ancient. The geometry smolders like a lawn sprinkler smeared with Gauss distribution, which is totally independent of the empirical subject and laced by two determined pairs of hands appearing out of the darkness.

There are signs that gravity is asymptotically safe. Fasten a flash to the nether end of a red giant and watch it flame into space like a busted guitar string. The wool is your point, even if it’s a little theoretical. You can repair this goldfish. It’s not a perception. It’s a journey.

Jug clatter. Fill my murmur. Door that I believe. Folds. Eye rub. They fiddle a kiss who fountain scales. Twinkle like a lip.

With a word on it.

The appeal of mindfulness is in its complete highway, an umbrella in the backseat. This is where the trance meets the current. A whistle churns the spirits.

Rattle. Joke string. Accommodate your swallow. The skull has a life in it. Technicolor glockenspiel baby.

Cocoon. Dusty artist. Painter dirt freely exploded.

Fathom. Gleaming pain. Greet it organically.

Picasso lobster piano nailed beyond the convoy. Music in a metal. I’m sending you an alchemy. Plays. Infantry figures. Dribble perception and dig. Chemicals diffusing in demurral. A club clatter a wheel with effective sounds on the gravel. Motorcycles. Lights. Crumpled beer cans.

Virtue. World spout. Red flickered to ochre. Stroll. Drum gravy. Sophisticated snow chair. Abalone finger which an opinion explains to be a platform for the enactment of steam.

Fish before fish crush the distortion.

I feel bronze. Meat during science gets scraped to gristle. And then a mitten is written into space. Break a fast and rob a pratfall. Falling in love is a new pavement for the engines of groan.

Great music has to be scraped out of the air. Or pumped.

Coaxed, cajoled, rubbed, persuaded, magnetized, pleaded, begged, beguiled, chiseled.

Delegations of pearl undertake the lassitude of ash. If space is within space, then spatiality must have something to do with Le Palais Idéal du Facteur Cheval.

This is my electric yellow pin. I’m licking the power that is nature. I smell sweet from my locomotive breakfast. Causation causes itself by eating the glitter of enigma.

A cricket singing from a high edge of involvement exclaims nothingness, which is now a nail in the two-by-four of a sentence cycling around a man’s tongue.

String theory states that all matter in the universe is composed of tiny vibrating strings of energy and in the long run will redeem us from the old ideals, which were beginning to smell like icebergs. Locke believed that makers have property rights.

What a joke.

Nobody has property rights. All we have is one another. Pluck that G string, and sing a tune of dark blistering energy.