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Wednesday, July 21, 2004

today Bruce Springsteen met the end of the ocean. the headlines settled in nineteen eighty something, at the peak of someone's power. aliens as redeemers put a few jokes in the scripts, and we thought how great the tide of music could be. you know you loved the Red Hot Chili Peppers, because they meant what they said they would sell. Madonna's happy tune drove home a fact, Time Magazine in the yard of our Lord nineteen something something. we were ready for fun, stymied rarely with cases of whichever way to turn. not that music matters, not that our better half doesn't war it in the Arab countires, not that angels need us mainly. it's just so great to have this, and divide, and the container for the day contained. Bruce Springsteen and the career at home, the poetry alone, the sentence brushed, and what's in store...

Comments:
personally, I was told thinly discarded membership ran high amongst those teasing our friends, who included but did not resort only to B Springteen and load's dynamite and that other set of creatures. I had it in range and feeling peculiar, some people having names, others just a distance from nearly famous. the authentic was almost a crowd, worth repealing perhaps, but maybe all we've got. hence the simple assumptions, all of it in code...
 
of course, your therapist built an American bundle, it's the weight of gravity being serious, no matter how hard one fights. doesn't mean that your nose hairs need your condiioned attention, just that scrofula doesn't fool around with the arch set. consider the dope and its provenance, the risky popular vote that loves cheese, those sediments of pure panicky poetry flops, the entire gimme ranked as assassins in a delirious topic sentence, and the props of allure. exactly what's left in the smelly barn beyond the next hill? everyone says they know, but they only draw sloppy pictures of intent.
 
luckily intellectual discipline arrived in the mail today. just barely, the thought of taking on the threads of attention while remaining able to talk of coffee snacks. my language did this to my country. follow the flow, or whatever comes to brightness while the jerking dance becomes numero uno in treasure moment, hahaha. if I need Jack Spicer's advice, I'll make it up. my Red Hot Chili Peppers love my Madonna, and that's enough while I'm counting my change. Bruce S simulates or stimulates, I'm never quite sure, and the antics remain embedded. it's that much of a career just to tell people you are moving.
 
in English, the rest of the world falls apart. in English, full of American stump and lode, the gestural looks too creamy. wouldn't an age need something specific once, without elongating the past? Bruce Springsteen was over in a minute, in a year that collected quickly, but a recording impression stayed in dull concern. our various sentences work in reverse at times. there could be a full career at home someday...
 
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