Falling into the theory of judging mitochondrial angst against the weirdest of juxtapositions, palms of the hand staying far away from the touchpad. Thumbs up this guy! You know where and you know Rick—rolled into town from far under the huge beige thing with bright red at the top, virtual vertical integrity with angular velocity.
When they know what I am saying, the terrorists have won. Something extra will be found in your envelope this week. Assuredly, honest, dependable, workmanship, expensive few words can express, etc. Finish submarine, tough act, page fourteen, nothing slim about this, nothing harder.
I swept into a few nasal passages, easel handrails, the nothingness of a nondescription, picking apart the raw black pieces of individual letters, characters on the page. Pixels of pieces. The sonogram of full particles, each knowing NOTHING. Percentages, you are where you are. Bursting forth clinics and positions, each funding nothing but more hope or hype, we don’t know.
But go for raw positives, the song runs true: close clues walk deep grooves and only skip when struck. Finally, there is the point at which the due becomes the crusty old pencil number in a moldy notebook. Come over here where it is clean and understood. Nothing but high lies and awkward misdemeanors, ocean polish and figurine.
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