In The Key Of Swallow

We have a constant time designing a goal, and jokes, like this one, with a syllable attached to it. Your spark is the pounce that chisels it. Snake what manufactured it what squashed it with bloom. Brightness is the stuff to insure you have the key to your bed. I saw it happen with my own ears. Hothouse tailored my cry to study my ample pleasure. And then a pause cogged the flashlight after a buffalo walked into my eye. It happened to be a Thursday and the exceptions were as beautiful as they were Euclidean. I know a cube from a polyhedron. It’s an occurrence going all toward anybody that I happen to be an eggplant. And no, the sprint wasn’t about the disruption of plowing, the intent was to qualify death as a corollary to work.

As pathos veers somewhere spectral we groan through our consonants until liberation imbues our nerves. This is called expenditure, and is a form of linen. We name things in order to calcify things. It’s funny how much trust we have in our mother tongue. Me, I don’t trust the word ‘utopia.’ I know a dystopia when I see one. But you can’t see a utopia when everything is operating according to plan. This is called sedation, and is a form of cyberspace. If it ever rises, let this evolving passion singing in its own brightness decide what to leave out, or include, or daringly espouse. Editing begins at home. And ends at a dead end overlooking a valley of stars.

Everyone at rip me softly is also rallying to develop these experiences. Beyond all reason at navigate toys, I am your muscle beside an emerging tube of bubbly. A little talking here indicates an anomaly of the tongue incidental to the movement of bone propelled by a strong emotion twinkling inside me. My previous conversation lies in tatters about the galaxy beneath our bed. I rub against the scratchy sentiment our binoculars evade and take it inside to give it a circumference and a waterfront. What plug, you might well inquire, might stop a catastrophe during the upheaval of an athletic universe suitably dressed in quantum foam slapped together in a bathtub? What I can tell you is that it’s not a plug. It’s a dolphin amazed by its own movement. The gods look down, happy to see its carousals please the tourists. I don’t know why I said that. Consciousness sloshes around in the head when the fireworks sob. I guess that’s why.

Advise me with a kiss, and I will reward you with a fiddle. I saw an idea stirring among these words as interacting dimensions twisting occurrences on the radio, and was at a loss as to its provenance and bark. Therefore, I did nothing. What can one do, given our specific predicament, our unique requirements, and our imperfect understanding of apical bud dominance in Viking strongholds? I will give garments and hymns to this narrative after sleeping against a sparkle of paradise. And when and if that door ever opens, I will humor the time with rubber. My palace embeds a pain acquired from everything and created by none. I sit among its glories by means of a lingering nostalgia manufactured out of tinfoil. We all know what’s happened, by are too frightened to say it. My anybody glows in the sphagnum moss spread throughout this paludarium, and squirts. We get by either by farming our instincts for better counsel, or deepening our hindsight. Either way, the stern has its wake, the house has its windows, and the swallow has its sorcery.