27 May 2007
blinking on and off, as if to get noticed. your extensions are admirable, but made with dead tissue. thereby, invalid. not even close, real, true, extant. stretch one more inch, and reach one more dead line. the line when wrought shall be ripped down, and down with it comes a wall with your highness. pain is nowhere around, not to be found. find that, i say, and find what you mean when you claim to exist. to recite, this plan is a second-class struggle, all the way to the paperwork, and the bent paper clips you employed as integration. pull one page off, one less frame, take one main. leaves fall soft and sound. not a word, not a sound, not a noise to be heard. not one person's hands got dirty with this work.
Posted by Daniel Bolton at 23:20