Sunday, March 16, 2008

bleary

a tea stained star quaked writhing wreath product between k to n functors: no abysmals. Must have experience with karma nutation and dogma class n-ultrafilters for strongly compact non Mahlo cardinals. Capacity to trip the light fantastic at a moment's notice vaguely desirable but certainly not mandatory. Slight scoliosis may aid in weaving ducks together. Do not deploy the catnip at one minute to the minute past midnight or the thin straw bales and the poor approximations of ghee which the onion-man's providence is the only attention which we rely on in times of doom for militaristic and somewhat bedeviled egg-cooking procedurals: I was a drama critic and a dramaturge, but goddammit I was a typographer's worst nightmare: I was a badly drawn font, a random assortment of lines in the plane, a magician, a chiropedist, a wailing whale: did you see the collohngrohfes on that zilliwong? How rastreputian! I am not the modern mechanical wave machine, nor am I the prince-regent of misapproximations: I am the worried tea-aunt for this thylakoid. Oh Ohonckoa where was the single molecule of riboflavin that determined the fate of empires, metaconsortia, and various apparitions in the erf: gee, that was the plan, that was the heptacle in which the magic rite was not performed: a thin sinew strewn, its actin and myosin cleft by principles that meet or exceed the knowledge of Stupid Science by ten parts per trillion: he planted beer seeds and waited for beer plants to grow. It was a tensor tea, a holor halogeny: a precise and utter desire for self reflection brought about by a kind of wobbly sobriety cross crissed on a layered and stratigraphically nontrivial kind of history simply paused because of highly rococo social internabula: when one is wasted from pushing and pulling one's forces against an already established structure of what seems to be an obscene and brutal size, when one has to marshal one's already easily depletable resources against such bastions of misaccuracy and imprecision: it is like trying to fight a stream of chocolate pudding that pushes out eight tons of chocolate pudding a second. It's like when Dzongba George realized that he was in fact two people: Ford George and Drofnats George: you can't win the balloon mechanism game just by putting checkers on the field: it's fighting against the nostrils of whomever, and in that, I suppose, you might find some kind of temporary relief, but it doesn't replace a good rush of endorphins when someone randomly gives you a massage

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