リラックス

"Whereto has the drippy smogmaker Sam gone," said the ham-eating piggaloo.

I've brided the hair and the skin again

It seems I might have discontented a few of you charred corpses who, after the Great Fall of cyberkinetic antransatraffic in this realm of perserverant, verdant trued and trying knowledge, postamble to (my) transitory erudite light (your) addiction relapses scattered into the ant hills and hippo eyes, virtuous servitude and symbiotic justification abound and around like fireflies. I can only imagine you've all flickered out accordingly, waiting on your ancient, afternoon sun staircases while the darkness comes freedomed in inevitable perpetuity, traversing the globe and grabbing with hungry claws the incandescence that I can think of you forbidding yourself ascetically in unconscious provincial devotion to the auspice of pleasure even if it's just the autobiography of insanity under the novel fluorescent of aweared mundanity. Anyway, the ice cream truck is here while the grandmother is dead in her rocking chair; it's going to be ok.
So while I can't offer much in the way of statuesque hospitality, here's my watch and five dollars. You try looking at the time as it pervades through spasmodic fingers and feeling the gunshots in wan expectation. I believe you'll know a thing or two about legless puppets when you become a wo-man, because that's what I'm getting at here while talking to you and thinking about legs and breasts (equality to womanlyhood in all respects that a man is under when he's drinking out of shere willpower and love for his woman manlihood). For what and why is that directness dried up in the wellwater already wet quiveringnessly drunk? Here is the stand, and here is the fight and you are the fighting, Hurrah!