Saturday, September 20, 2003

the dust fell heavily, and gave indication that it was the MOON'S. this is could. it could travel in the SAME LIGHT WE KNOW. it could fall with real gravity, not the crud served nationally, or the traipse of time. it could, and we seem to matter, for the dust finds us. or else the aliens are terrific friends for so long, then different measures are gathered, more than discussion but less than claim. firm residual matter, such as defends our political climate. no dust consumes our national anything, or the oily embargo of our conceit. look at the pleasure wrapped in the current language, look at the documents. the aliens treat us to spectacular finery, soulful vitality and large margin. restless incisors wait for time's cushioning. this is the way of comment, born of great gobs of space dust. drastic. change comes over us. Wolfman wanders into the room clearly upset. but the moon is not full, it's just a ball of dust, yet the aliens are not helping. they tease Wolfman and he gets vicious. he starts talking of alien iniquity, which is nothing more than the pleasure of time stretched over fields of light. who can exclaim at such consistency? we KNOW the dateline and the catastrophe: we voted for both. the president fulfills his least. we're reading into the pronoun with gathering storm. DUST settles in triplicate, indicting the last emperor of Vietnam in no uncertain terms. it isi terrible and a mess. we're jacked to hear of retribution, of timely dust on a warm stuttering night. will the tragic aliens hear our noise? will they listen to our trajetory? why are we so upset?

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