Saturday, September 04, 2004
lining up in an arcade to dream of other flights. the tense of the moment, looking casualty, breaking into diffidence while the peaceful throng. inside every arcade a list of being out of touch, lots of processes to carry, children docked again. featured in the arcade a closing topic, stunt fun, mention this or that until it's all just provable. a holy regatta of form and tells us school report. how's your child in being? a necessary evil builds fine product and trudge, then each word goes a little random. space becomes an utter mob; we have enough to entail; our jury stinks of limping: alas in the cushion of the resounding stoppage arcade, when the children aren't a little more. a jerk and kindly read about the morning, mooring after engaged. that's what the aliens mean, when they carry what they mean.
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