Wednesday, September 03, 2003

a diet of bromides, a trickle down theory. the thrust of causation institutes another crush of affection, a patriotic wave at all the good things left. doctored institue is what we're looking at, divining certainties from the midst of mush. well, at least we've solidified our 'position', which is itself a preposterous position. the aliens are stylized when they hear of our affection for direct data and underlined passages of text. mountain groups are sent into a tailspin, which is really right for all. and vegetation browns in the harsh fencemaking of the sun's grasp. we're tired, we call out to the dire platitudes, and we need rest. the aliens are our scouts, after all, and so much here needs redemption. but can it be enough, when wednesday rolls around again, and the certain public flogs gelatinous poetry into the thinking membrane? as if! skylark in tow, the preamble bums a cigarette and tiortures the text for a minute before surrendering. so much meaning in so little space.

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