Story Tropes

Mistakes: There is more than one browser. Secondly, I am not logged in on the other. I was having one of these perpetual telephonic disasters with one of my (definitively-not-a-juggler)-biocontributor, at the end of the call, I see that the clouds of greenspun birds, I can neither see nor speak of. Thar's a raw ache. I printed and emplaced on my wall, a draft, with your eurythmy, the scars where the poem's paper was taped to the wall as well as the picture still adorn the wall. I'm not sure -- I wrote your nomen anuenue on the notebook page that I first wrote about torrential effervescence. As for breaking and cardiac persimmonery, that I can answer, I think, I'm not wholly sure, though, can't work out the direct product, everything is blurry: what's definite is that far before I could be given a chance to reasonably work out where I stood, I bothered taking what people said at face value, and then afterwards, I was misunderstood by triage, and now? The flocks of birds vanish. Maybe one of them vanishes. Tricky to reconcile the lack of a final proscenium with irregular regularity, falling into cosmic limit cycles, falling over. We made it about two thirds of the way through, associating between each label and the next, what were they labeled with: trees, rainbows, honeycombs, gluons, lattices, galaxies, hyperboloids, bismuth, butterflies, crashing waves, muons, thunderstorms, theta functions, seashells, cabin trunks, fungal gills, lichens, oxidative phosphorylation, CNO cycle, didgeridoo, cough drops, weaving, ginger ale, stroopwafels, froth or foam, iridescence, pizza, lambda calculus, juggling, water, green, fractals, typography, the ocean, sleep, dreams, love. As a result of the algorithm chosen to string the Euler circuit, after each run the last link returns to the last numbered node. The list above is in numerical order. I told a story I had to tell, I think, about letter isomers: that will keep me alive, at least. What do I do? I know not. Do I fret in wait? Will you reappear now only to disappear later, or to editorialize and self-censor so quickly to feel like dancing-make-me-nauseous? Twice? Thrice? Clock chimes? The marigolds twirling in the sunset, is this my emotional netflix? Talk to me sometime, not in delayed asciioscopy, but in phonemes. So, scar tissue? Triage wounds? What's cued? Who is blue and who was violet? Of brush and thresh and green and gerania and spackled gateways, and whatever burnished cast fundamental fear buttressed arches flying like swaying swans perhaps foresquawking futures reliant but marinated by bleary endorphins and incuprient byways blasting forth with, well, I paint the sky with ephemeral abstractions anyway, so dance I won't: if queasy hopes blear into inert contrails baked with ambiguity at 400 kelvin, I'll be having my pizza and doing mathematics where I can at least be assured that my heart, and perhaps yours, will remain uninjured.