and we just couldn't figure out, said Flava Flav, the god. we fought for
the colouring of leaves into this feeling, the definite and chemical
process as a signifier, to find some way in or out.
thus the god declared. and Paris Hilton, the ancient goddess and now
singing sensation, roots and branches still making the tree, said of the
beautiful light thru still green and red and yellowing, it twinges me to
go on, when the man that left stayed gone.
furthermore could be collected but patient Reader must understand all
this as clear and rain, even if language limits reason. the gods and
goddesses are naked as handkerchiefs, and they often live next to
bug-zappers, in the quiet part of everything, drinking juice drinks of
almost 10% real juice, and soap is their dessert. moths gather at
participles, meanwhile, maybe to prove something.
death can be taxing in its way.
certified brain-damaged beechnuts might install tall gallant trees into
a nested future day for which that family might have lingered. or the
dog, peeing on a peculiarly assertive hydrant, demands a place
wherewithal thereto. all of which is indicated by phrases and such.
so the god Flava Flav, he lift he sunglasses and yay bo, that clock
round his neck is definite in all. and the cocaine buzz of Paris Hilton,
buying time, the Well of Something Something that we might all worship
thru the ages, or at least until.
and it isn't really all of Lovecraft that dies, just the stodgy plectrum
that wouldn't. it would be weird to pass judgment on every rattled error
on his docket or each our own. time clenches like a hart attack, tho it
won't always tell stories.
strangely now, the god William Shatner is fully at peace.
