There are few stories left on this planet, all the else are elsewhere told. Some of these scattered sectionals have been banished--battered, beaten, and old. Some say the moon was a triumph, something was made and something broken while I’m standing in the hallway, holding a subway token.

The fully-disposables march into their glutinous position, formations unique in their irregular refuse dispositions. Suddenly, in fright, or anticipation, -- they change their situations.

Weatherbeaten by time, living lusciously on fruits of decades passed, they labor fruitlessly, their splendors all too rotten. To live by past alone, pondering present specifics: one patterns, pitter-pattering along, until their plunder.

Epistemologies of Victorian times, your age has come to volition. Now go to die, and get the hell out a’the kitchen. Learn, now, that all truths are revisable and unlike diamonds, no knowledge is forever.

This is This is This is the done rope
Watch as we wander through winter spaces
Crawling on our backsides for sleep
"In exchange" he says "in exact change,"
"maybe ... somehow ... We could get together and ...,
I think ... we should .. Tar em up forever and,
never again.

It’s a pragmagical day, boys. This is my TV show. This is the egotistical hay, girls. My ideas have a tangible cash value, and empiricism is a radical thing. These are the principals of panpychic economies. This is my TV show.

Oh, It’s a jolly holiday with you, James
‘cause you’re the philosopher that we love

It’s a pragmagical day, girls. This is my TV show. This is the egotistical hay, boys. Add water and watch me grow.

I’m razing the bar on abstractions. I wear the insignia of my dada, his family name proud & true: Gadji beri bim, bippity-boppity-boo. If I became a cubist, well won’t you too?

This is the electrocardiograph, it reads random truths. I go bump in the night, and I see right through you. This is the town we made, this is the football team. This is the town we made, this is the policy. Roads surround the eleventh hour and there is a dead reckoning, there. These roads are burning, the tar melting. I’m raising the level of abstraction, leaving the words for someone else to burn. I’ve lost all the magic that I once had. Is it time to close the parenthetic arguments in my head, never to spill its doesn’t matter again?

Our moon waits candidly, observing the ostentatious rebirthing of her daughter, the earth, who the moon orbits in these mutinous times. Where the definitions of words suddenly expand and contract.

Don’t take no for an answer, take it for a walk down the old River Heraclitus mainstay.

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