Thursday, September 25, 2003

tactile laity grows on trees, but the trees are small, stunted in the climate. who wouldn't be in the claim nights and real burn days. the benefit of disaster takes time to conprehend. some overrun nation or what have you teems into its knowing, or gushes truth a la three prong attack and divots of soil. the aliens must have similar ideas tho they mask their minds with inscrutable foreignness. they are above and beyond, with sentences in misty places, words made of entirely different matter. where does light come from, and why doesn't it fill night? does light wear out? the laity endeavours to snatch a trust from the waters of calm, or the swaying desert sands, or the critical clouds and rain of when and wherever. there's a reef far out, and ships collapse upon it. bombs fall in millions of places, with identity smeared into a breaking landscape. trees are tough but rather quiet. the laity thinks of itself. we're the common people. the aliens look out upon the desert they found and sense that mistakes have been made. they wait while we keep 'busy'.

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