a grinning thing in an empty forest calls down to the traps he's set for winter furs. the reporting traps are still set, no prey in thier teeth yet. furry long and useful manners of all move through this arce at lunchtime. the traps need to be spread out just right. if you holler on down at the punchline of those old-thing pains you get nowhere and nothing. it's nothing more that a prompt delivery to the starting spot.
early enough driftwood gathers on the heaphouse knocking together morning's random rhythm. he can smell a brain. the talent's been honed on years steeping in the deep foils of dumbwater. waiting for a change is a b-class sport. genuine help offers down from the machines, big cranes dip a smartie in to light up the depths. waiting is a b-class sport. you can hear them buzzing in carving wedges in the skyways. often enough to survive. miles of drawn out laws from pop-unison usher out in cocentric waves from a smartie on a dip. between dips he feels like a lonely god. an imprisonment holding up from having no walls. there are others living in puddles gasping for sustinence with hardly enough room to roll out the traps. if you don't use them they just wither and die. he'd heard tales of tractless sorry cases left to waterlog and die. good enough to have space to keep living.
warming holds fresh multilingual oppression divided for cages veering on the sly. they think they never need search out forgotten holdings. memory is from pools dreamt up lame. crags of stifling gross demurity having jokes done for top level monopolies. such restraint from killers drives the gang to feed like clockwork. the underlying crimson flint ladder forms lakes of additional organs and fluids parted by natures own business. when you need to replace something, it's usually not hard to find. triple game real promises deal with your frown having grown worth whims of hormonal cliches. it a place like this the effort is worth all you could ask for. holds from up top live tirelessly hung up on the green harms driven to law by the marbles lot. prowling has done room in harm. done hardened facts to keep the hot and cold things apart. there's no between. between is a pop-emulation containing a flaccid typhoid guage at constant war to make itself know and to make itself known. it has neither and never should. if it did the fight would stop and the natural distinction would collapse. smarties talk about the idea. it's just a theory, nothing that could have brought termination pressure to the ranks gone drone over years gone lava. balance can shift. the grown hush through washing players does little to cushion naming veteran trails traveled heavy. order uses waves harded from top illnesses freely hung joined in a heavenly hovering incident. you can see i keep busy. without my end in the upkeep sanity gets slippery.
from the end of the pool voices draw out the plans collected from marginal dreams, moldy wartime theft blends music and trust for the floor we live on. a floor is important. you need something to live on, in our case nothing works out better. ports far from here tend to the workings i take for granted. i can only imagine what the far ports duties are. a filmy cast over my reach keeps me from it, keeps me to wondering. a smartie told me the world works on wonder. we all need to keep wondering, to do our part to keep it working.
legendary spools going list and speed grasp hate with a frosty undone limit from going off balance in dreams of wartime. there are no two accidents with an equal price. blistering fair meshing of pulling silence up rusty time for any use dosn't bore the lightest wound rope. if ever the freedom hauls a wicked tradewind, formulations lay girth a creamy porcelan bellow to rival the quest for what isn't asked. a tough drift has been building on my main front. watching your main front is a better chore today. i keep close to using just my own heart for work. anyone else's find a way in is that much mine is out. you must have your heart in your work. work done without it wouldn't work, it's not a good idea to test this.
doing hauls for porcelan bellows boosts heart value in the tryst fund. with enough accumulated in the tryst fund i'll be able to control my own temperature when i'm upstationed to work above the sky. any forseeable impediment needs avoided in dealings with ranker. inklings torn from oppertunity holding invention aloft brings persistence to the games we were made for. world was lonely and had no reach. it needs us for playmates and limbs to embrace sister space.
we all have to keep up our end. forgetting that will make you insane.
ducts gone on the astringent mixture contract puff out with a popping noise. they go down a funnel process to grist for the hounds. lifetime music trays dribble lucid frameworks during legendary regression transit. probably the teeth gone from the porcelan bellow notate key hounds for playlists going above the sky. garnish vest polish also traces typical hurried feelings that draft into your heartspace during transit hours. this is the most confusing time of the day.
lunchtime is not bad though.
rolling trauma insists on resistance of the division paradox. we all need to participate, but the parting oil isn't to be nothing. things are real because the oil is kept fresh. the hounds slither in it for identity. without the oil you are not you and if you are not you, the world is not what it is. this comes from the smarties.
linking hurts provisional dateline stratification. growth must be doled out in small shards of luminous music over boredom with food. there's a crease in the backflood of dreaming in wartime, mortuary blame slides comically blind in a spincycle of mountain growth. the quakes dream in gusts of brawny uplifting warship of the pinnacle of time's accumulation. ongoing attention lends the moment to anyone there to hold on to letting go. on frothy placid typecast hunches animating playthings lost for hoisting a surrogate milestone in luminary soundwaves marking a place drawn on the magnitude of pre-emptive grace.
the sapling corpse was found somewhere near my previous place. it was a romantic gift jogging memories lost in wartime dreams. there was an epidemic of the little dead saplings after some accumulation cycles. front places were diligently watched. we were curious by lengths of normal guilt and edgeless terror. we arranged a formation to call down the smarties. the order was put in culminating in slurred optical placid undergrove transport cylinders of the green seriousness.
but, of course, we never miss the domicile pledge topping the gratitude hush. rough going on the plight being a co-ordinated dismal blush factor. charismatic health drifters have been lifted off the glamour trough hotline and called together forming a directional washing troubleshooting summit resulting in a limber orphan clip draft exasperation, quite successful and long overdue, really.
the milk of admiration is a headlong dive into a discorporeal, spacious, blue status quite palletable. georgous doings of divine deities unfurl in a cinematic presentation and unparalleled validation of every sensory suspicion ever to have crossed your mind.
plaintiff scraps of multiplenary facilitation wrought pliable blotted over if some rental jurisdiction mounts locks from the oversky to canopy rendering sinking lock worries a thing of the accumulation. motorprognosis dystopia, meandering rack-digger plies doable twist lab fitting normal protagonistical aptitude limp training for gimp route alpha male strategy. there are things without which no narrative of any genre can aspire to be a fulfilling read. plenty of houses during young journalistic protocol. nurses to wipe asses and tend to erotic needs. it's a cutthroat land favor in places pre-dating collective memory databases. things, events and places long gone with no hope of retrieval. organismic destitution shaped to conduct an eponential rize in adaptive capability. genome templates from chameleons and ancient shapeshifters.
a lot can be playfull tossed around like this, but it isn't how literal prowess is diffused among graphs for digital brain to brain transmission.
but all that is above the sky. there are worlds of eachothers best kept secrets, and closely guarded ignorance. resistance. hell is resistance. heaven is total acceptence. simpler than resisting, but more difficult to practice.
worse return plunders growth yonder bigotry and ails of continuum, snapshots in sequence. stay on the lip of the wave of accumulation. that is the only reality anywhere, anywhen. planks send off your troops in mass organization having made a psychic cat's cradle using teleporters. such an advantaged army could approach claim to that concept unallowed in most training camps-invincibility.
the gray areas loom much larger than places taking on any form or color. grafts doomed trivia safe and diverse for only pivotal advancements, change accellerated makes no room for anything else, even though it seems infinite space has opened up, the current state of things dictates what areas of eploration would maybe prove fruitful and which are just a waste of resources.
ports in the area defending most of our life gave dead service broth livabiliy strands famous money chacers dropping a milked target like a wet towl bereft of it's usefulness. how common is that? common enough to open up the stewardess guesswork table to public respiratory avenues, floods of skin patches left to dry, to regain the wall between his blood and the world.
the reach of this digital phantasm was theoreticall endless. the holographic representation was self-sustaining, no inconveinent generator to lug around. plains worn drastic ordered harm came and gone with filth undecided companionable to lives thrilled nervous run-down pathways between carnivals equalized under aged and tattered sails filled with wind that is always brand new.
cannons deal you woman and frowns lifting cables to wind puppets and hedonic sun goddesses thousands of horsepower driving fine tuned, diverse and terrifying sexual seperiority. she knows it, knows exactly what's under that hood and holds it in check with little, if any apparent effort. it's hard to imagine she's of the same gender that has babies and provides them with comfort and nurturing in the first stages of life.
repetition in keeping with old lethargic windows glad to please. an angle that makes a slide rumble and a fraction of thermal impiety groan with tender residue of blank systematic hilarity becoming impreferential even to dental violation with a victims' panel for evangelistic anti-sense hysteria. long necked beasts with jaws like an industrial clamp. please this dirt is not acceptable. furnish me with more eloquent settings of robust charm and platonic shelf-life gone intrinsic on the issue and careless like this fight: this fight you put money on, a good sum. winning is important. you're an american aren't you? your boy is dead. the fight is always that way. the good fight. oh, he was a fighter. he fought the good fight. pummeling away at a moth-eaten corpse substancial as a scarecrow.
it's pluralized in the ploy the smarties have whipped up. one drifted down by my garden before lunchtime, looking same as always, they all look the same to me-shiny black sphere covered with indented lines that make a pattern that seems to be random. skyfolks supposedly can tell them apart, get to know them by name. this one came down and fed me the reams, my new station in life. i'm to meet up with a man at himlork station tomorrow after lunchtime with all my belongings packed up and ready to go. i'm going to miss it down here in the deeps. but i can't stay here forever. there's a logical way of things. our world works because of the sacrifices we make.
time is taffy, if the two men ever saw eachother again thier subjective timesenses wouldn't likely match up. communication though not impossible, would be maddening tedium to phonetically boost your notions about critical orbit throat fucking poor hundreds of gradient proposals for taste and conjugation. collection of shoestring intangibles abreast a tipped balance to linear dreams grinding ways of daily locust seasons. primitive blocks game and her avalanche of teeth to land a worker drone and slather your nine-volt tang before prayer to the late fourth horse of the apocalypse. the holy horse. you ride her hooting velvet litanies plugged into genuine mercy and fools tumble into the origin. creeps ruin the rown gradient pie trap vessle. the arch with enough liquid flirts in transparent wardreams. the camera is wet and i'm lying about it. sails full mast i'm amazed it keeps from snagging a tree on the banks. we are coming into desert anyway. the guy who owns it feels best in deserts. he'd look at the trees and most impressed by marriage flakes of desert makings settle.we watch it all and had bare bones discussion. when does neuroticism coast into mean populace trilogies defeat mention flushing
empty filing space i like to choke in your lamboyance pointing youthward. lifting yarn up high in florescent wrong children complications. the delve. what's in the book? you mom is injecting jesus swiveling in a soft wet pile of woodchips the art of arctic abomination fused with transparent homespun literacy. she gives chace. what's behind her? has a gift moustache of irrisistable time tampering properties been placed on soft pillows? inticement without the gumption to take a tumble. all of it is none for me. the moustache is the only pretense needed clamouring halfway from waffles, placenta and a homicidal beefcake telegram. happily dealt out on a foreward plane of glandular misfortune. glare in the home wheat and firm codolences gritting outposts, food and hulkish redirection of common good in ones direction. low kings from somewhere i'd kick him. he strolls and knows that at lunchtime the groin oppression harvester lottery will percolate our numbers. it's exciting because there's always a fair chance. it's someone different every time, but they're always beautiful. genetic fucking back here, she's just sitting by me while i find the right vein for optimum lift off.
the worker drones are a lot of behavioral assistants. they all wear the same clothes and if you're acting in a way not copasetic with your swandive self, which they know and you don't, they'll break your legs for you. we all feel proud of where we rub our towering gluttonous rage on may 11th.
only people on a glide they can't spend from under have the notorious downfall of hassle. everything. falling out in the shower drain all of the focused palm croppings drove wondering and made my part in it. i saw what yours was today, yes, the jewelry shop. you always do jewelry. you're a coward. you're fat too. the only reason i ever talk to you or sleep with you is all the coke you give me. do you have any? i'll fuck you if you want. changing room.
closed doors pleading genuine interest in overpriced shoddy merchandise comes with a lever. one lever just to change things. don't be misled into believing there are no rules anymore. number one is that since you're thin and attractive now i'm going to hoook you up to a limbic plug. don't worry, you'll feel good most of the time a fuck jockey lives a good life, seriously. revered next down from the captain.
anyway do you want to go into the power generation room and fill up the tank?
glowing graven in the outwash of a rinse strom. slander oat plans and too much weather in the smooth land, to dry to yelp in a box filled with merchandise. my underplayed persuit dripping on heated raspberries gleaned from frobidden origins and deep shock memories i walk somewhere living encapsulated and flown partway to prophecy hanging from a jet lamp, hitting rest when fighting wont lodge glamourous hate valley polish burning a sour plastic cup. this cubic airspace is hideously disfigured. blunt hours , guy. you take my pistol and hail the queen a violation of sacred biology injecting the powder of his long dead bones, concentrated christ charisma. blink once at the hot dag stand on 6th steet. there's leslie with his hungry magic espousing political polemic. fridgid air at such a distance it seemed to call me in wartime dream segues. a holler from hunter skipping winter in a coma he claims to have faked. if anyone could fake a coma, it would be him. lost regulatory boat panel for the fifth time. to a citywide paino storm. free piano!-but they were all trashed in the closed off avenues. out groan having lilly undercy thin dominoes from hawaii plus donatello incriments. indictments and instruments. good art and good food. i've been slacking in the food department. i've not eaten in three days. i'm not fasting, i've just not made any efforts to get nourishment in me.
the world is choking on the muscles of a bald eagle shoved down its throat
we've been held up in sponsorship with a melancholy sedatitive for servatude. lope with the gas tank on the lanky bridge that loves sister compulsion. no there have been no messages or calls no incrypted telltales giving way to hints of diversion of lexicon probables. waste your train heart for the work it could do to keep out of the blaming black without let up flat dasies up crawled prize fighting expenditure placation