Structure Is Just The Howl Of Ooze

Structure is just the howl of ooze. The heave of the oboes tells us how to fade. For how to you put into words an experience said to be ineffable? Our brains are prediction machines optimized by experience, and when it comes to fairyland, they have bodies of expression combined with a tiny sample of daybreak.

Photogenic oasis. Guzzled audacity. Duodenum is a dream and must remain one in order for a modicum of illusion and a stage of the imaginary to exist.

Energy impels us to run. And so we run. Reality can go on like this all day, running on its atmospheric scorpions, each screw in place, each totality a songbird made of cork.

Imagine a polymer. A compelling molasses of sunlight’s oddities.

Plot of an elegy’s elegance.

Jump the tea. The genre trickles wind.

We have nothing but vats. Nothing but space for the wife’s new horse.

Glide a pound of rain. Do it for wealth.

Sip glass. Pack a mood. Confusion’s gaze is gospel’s gauze.

Squeeze the lobster for milk. The teats are soft and poignant. I tell you this for your own good. The lyre was never so sweet but when the stars began to burn hysterically in nuclear girls.

Take the cartwheels to the beard dump. Then invade Norway.

The spices sputter into structure and charmingly adjust to the chewed bomb of a flourishing window. It’s orgasmic. But mute. High like a wall of rock. Silent like the water at its deepest point in the fjord.

Frequency is the mermaid of style. We grow nails to ponder our languish.

Drive truffles to generate a swollen loop in time. I’ve explored the sob wallet and it was breathed out in stories. Paint twinkles in its churning eagerness. The horizon oaks sigh in space.

Smash the word rattle. Crackle flirts sifted in meridional fruit.

Buffalo Bill was forged in seclusion. He is not to be confused with Sylvan Goldman, the inventor of the grocery cart, who was born in Ardmore, Oklahoma, in 1898.

The abalone blasted the magician’s iron. That’s how souvenirs were invented.

We sewed a bashful face. Finding parrots is reciprocal. It bears repeating. Sidewalk moo. If you say the right things, I’m capable of being navigated, but you will never know the true destination of my return. The zoom answer glides through its rabbits and pulls back revealing declension. And that, my friend, is called a transition. Someday I will find the confetti to learn you.

The raw sienna of metaphor is considered a joy. The tongue is plough to the goad of knowledge. Existence is a genuine property of icicles. Think of being as a sympathy. An octagonal pharmaceutical. Force discussion. Otherwise everything just dangles in the air like a presumption.

Expansive taste of warped emotion makes me empathic to the burst of gunfire. I don’t know why. Sense is often intuitive. A sky galvanized by the hope of employment is not always equal to the resilience required to detonate a sink. There are always pieces to pick up. And later we are stunned to find our trousers under a skull of clay.