Erik (eriktrips) wrote,

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twenty three through I don't know thirty maybe. paragraphs one and two in any case.

those who are wondering will be happy to know that lisagail made it safely home and has been tucked into bed for some time.

what I've done since then would be to change a few things in the last few paragraphs:

that particular trap. or a painting painstakingly rendered in brick and a car and its price in a balloon. why not say what you mean. grass grows in the cracks and that demands a small hurrah.

it will only be a scandal if you stare. no one recognizes me anymore but small blessings are thankfully small.

should we resume here. on the rare occasion that I can't hear you. pretty is as pretty does only they don't mention how to rate as plain. pin one on or tie one down. who knew that coffee after eight o'clock was a sin even in this life which risks its skin abandoning caution to the wind or three sheets. to get there you have to steer. otherwise what will we eat. on a good tear we can outstrip any attempt to keep pace but you will want to brace yourself for the screeching halt.

what referent.

a pickup truck and a street light and saran wrap and a sixpack. this was all we needed except for underwear turned orange in that pool of mud they called a lake. that was when I learned if you ran fast enough lightning couldn't strike you. a legitimate move. queen for a day.

if the ether lends its body to space static on the dial is no mystery but is. entire and utterly so in so many words or so few. hours of work. showers to shirk. no power to know how are we to proceed. to hear tell of the rule. to find oneself back in school.

it is killing me. I mean this only most graciously.

and to add this:

one longs for greater precision although what it would look like is unknown. oh god. a metaphor. it doesn't matter what was there before. a moment to abhore and then on therefore without complaint. if I could tell you what it was about I wouldn't have to go through all this. laconically he carried on. it is not just that we are caught in the circle but that there is no damned interior to it or rather the damned and the blessed all rolled into if not one then a long line and the circle unclosed and nagging at it all along.

there is a steel highway above my head. this frightens me. an iron curtain. a piece of glass. listen will you to the lightest of abrasions marble at least undergoes the axe and hears nothing. the difference is you will bleed.

I was under the impression the story was over. manifestly though. I cannot stress this enough. empiricism runs amok. civilizations rising and falling on the smallest of scales vastly indifferent to anything you would have to say but requiring your feverish attention to two tiny metal plates suspended in a vacuum.

nine volts it read. boldness insists upon yet another. the situation was one thing. what are you doing or would you spell it out cold. warm bodies no longer. or the marine air. yes that is it.

or machinations the livelong day or at least from one sun to another or if not that one particular twitch at the border of sense and the sweet lick of the extremities which bear it. a suite of rebar. something happened once but from here who can recall. all that remains is the ruse. the limbs push through as surely as dirt collects in the ruts. a step and another step and another trough where a thousand microscopic animals dance as though only they were the measure of the world.

it's moss. it's wet against the cheek. there is no reason to stew.

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