Sunday, November 02, 2003

they've got rocks in their truck, their own truck, rolling across the muted desert. not the unmuted desert, loud with some fabrication not apt for the story, but muted like heigh ho amongst stern granite walls. the rocks of the truck in this muted place are as love goes, my wife talks to me meaningly. the rocks represent rocks, in such a serious after effect and forenoon that rain clouds almost bead up to spill, but this desert doesn't feel it. the truck is their means, a story in itself. and with rocks to add to the stale air of explaining every dot, this is even almost gracious. my wife does not live in a truck, of course I do not either. I am startled to think that rocks find a place in the story, in the truck that is concerned. but aliens are provable, by talking aloud. you've been speaking for centuries in every word, look at the quality. and I've been speeding along. my movie is a rocketship or flying saucer, as befits the minutiae and vis-a-vis. so gather up the truck, all the rocks, my wife, me, the aliens, and figure what your job is.

yours truly,

the Inquest Started

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