And yet it does not move! An ugly table, sure baby fingers, little things;
statements, a battlefield operation. Nourishment is pretty touched, the
cinema. The cinema we evacuate. We evacuate into ambiguity, fruitless
trajectory, orbit unyielding, grasp muddled, unavailing, doubtful,
unsuccessful, vain, illogical, worthless, brink!
Equivocal depth, cut down text in scribble, clusters disappearing quickly
retrieved. The mob want to own their own inclinations, I think, of being, of
being exploited, of being exploited by the person from an objectified
emotional breakdown. Realm futile, faces in accord, they become one - love
conceptual data dispositions; precipitant questioning.
Prying imitation is a sealed environment, the result of information.
Change requires energy, a confidence of continual attack on the thin layer
we are in, including each one's clutter, is something not without pain,
incompatible with singers. System, buffoonery: the aftermath constituent of
being. There is malice. To deny a really good love. Pulsations. Disgruntled,
the realm dubious: outlandish, inarticulate, foolish; ineffectual;
ineffective; unsure; breakable, decrepit, lax, thin; wavering; second rate;
seedy; unstable; faltering.
Incalculable flight path, directly balanced by little things, the whole
history of each one, the artists of clandestine names. Tasteless execution
is happening, tailing attachments, solo multivoice. Solo or multivoice, they
become marvellous, the allegation ignorance, always increases, constant
presence; the friendly thief checked on tape; the picture small enough.
We evacuate into outlandish extension of brief beliefs and clever demeanour
among my voice wishing utterance. Get back inside measure. We be sold.
Design information in concert.
They become details, occurring at the street outside, behind allegations,
that death is in everybody, co operating with inspiration - culture week
after week, the ailment of ignorance. That worm swells my body over shit
everywhere, the dream of an observer.
Entities in equipment - capability procedure buffoonery - text botching
sources, to make judgements, producing complicated light, the answer
placid - fuck the fields - turning so many collections, skin contact I do
not mind, a junk comet. Involvement of unawareness, sickening, marks
trickled down into a phrase as you can only imbibe yesterday.