Anathema's out. Unforgotten, I think, but I have no problem with the personnel of the twelfth man. Stamp on it, there are damp places left. His gums bleed but it's all right. The list is limited to a dry ear of corn and calendar steel. Run the usual tests, clear up behind the face. Today I'm an apparent minimal; the perennial spanner, I see systematically, or god knows what might happen. All his gestures are judgements. They look like bundles of documents. His chosen title is historical thinking and other unnatural acts, the old ambassador root. The stone used is purple corundum. I think he's holding us back. One operates an engine (that might be the next solution). Consider for a moment the supreme detachment of a man mounted on a warhorse, caparisoned against the light. Ascension day tilts.
In every corner a shadow, a slate. The preface is mathematic. Scrape his tumour. I always get away with the shift jobs. The location is a catchment area for the local static, stammering without. The observed part makes sound then raises itself up. This is elliptical storytelling. Conclusion: burdened beneath a yolk, but quite superior in a place of void and mud.
Let's agree about the price. Recall is votive, shreds of saint in glass vessels. Counters vanish. Ankles are lost, no numbers show. He's got previous histories. Your next problem is the smoke. Quit this quarter. This should be better than a torch. Open your fist. He's off on another of his tangents. People now are easy to find. Smoke, eat, watch the skies, and leave. Do nothing, then take a rest. Repeat to quietus.
The well dries up. Might one abstain. Return to position the displaced parts by means of manipulation. Yes I think. Don't be afraid if it means nothing. They can see us from over there, beyond the cursus. We enjoy a fosse on either side and a gentle slope into the world. Nothing works. The index is an English index. There's a scarcity of birds, rapine, an absent uneasiness of noise. We need a professional urgent, the cattle truck is full of voice. There are no seats. We remount and go shopping. My upper labium stiffens, involuntarily. A voice in the dark says each. The dividing perspex offers protection, and who has not admired? Molten metal stands in for sea water: salt work, drainage-fluid in a mine, spunk in the engine. She's a mineral deposit herself. I don't want to say what they were actually doing. Sun intermittent. Standing intricately carved, a narrowbladed dagger glints for a tenderhearted foe.
Now you're going to cut me off, aren't you. Nine times out of ten you should get it somewhere in the right era. His message reads: do0pllar with festy ideal or pocket otherwise.
Black substance elastic, calcium salt of humus acid found in bed. The law of change of wave. Moving towards or from the observer, explaining the pulsebeat, explaining the fall of pitch, explaining the radial velocity of stars. The displacement of known lines, this change, observed.
You switch the intention first, then you interrogate.
A taciturn and melancholy man, who swerved wise of folk, and yet loved, expires.
Earth metal and iron produce a spark for the tinder. Inside I'm composed in layers. I'm trying to remember the coat of the vehicle, the true skin, as distinguished from the impostor, the dead at the edge. I've one eye out on the embankment. Glass stoppers: he begins to carve a second. You're a tower case yourself. I discover new aspects of the training camp. We undertake the third manoeuvre, this time on home ground. I'm buried up to my neck at the clock end. Advantage us. The final chance arrives. Search the skies, then withdraw for lack of purpose. Call me in the lip of an eye.
His voice o hello.
A door swings open and back and forth. He asks if he might quote my authority. At two o'clock he's occupied in composing the letter that's to end. Read by my lantern. Moths circle. Beat the humid air. It's three o'clock already. Does this happen to everyone. There are two threes beside themselves on the alley gate.
Then quickly though with many a backward look we drove through the waxy shell and out.
He puts them in the water and they open. Every one is something different. I wait a while and then apply (another layer). We are far from regarding you as one of those impostors.
It's only because he had originally been a yes. I thought you'd gone. This makes his work sound exciting but it isn't. I'm your guide today. If it weren't for the taps we'd go hungry. It was a week before I had the energy to look at it again.
What strikes me is that she's utterly devoid of sentiment. Her compassions are authentic. She begins with a word that dwells and rests. I've got to set the bandstand up while you're working the floor; it's going to be tricky. What she objects to is the speed with which I make up my mind to kill or not. The things that happen around each situation turn out to be unique. We're surprised. Everything seems rather uncharacter. I think about, and then I don't think about. After ten seconds it leaves an aftertaste of metal—like when a bunch of keys is dragged across the surface of your tongue. It's often elsewhere, my genre. She uses broken and confused instruments. She says she's happy with the horses (observe how smooth). They're dropping the gentleman word. People are easy to forget—it's her superfluity. Familiar whiff of paraffin at the postern stair. To add: did you get a good look at him.
Today's definition lies in the arc of the horizon between the meridian of a place and a vertical circle passing through any celestial body. An ugly hang, by any other words. One of the things you can guarantee is that there'll be plenty of pain along the way. After that is anything known.
The remains of a windsock on a bridge.
I think that one is least likely to secede. Don't talk, they'll see your mouth moving—we're supposed to be alone. It's the way it is because that's how it was when you won it. We need to know we can get it in the door. The body doesn't come into this after all. Her skin is bad, grey behind pasty white, the cage of the ribs too. There's a kind of fever on the dock. She lies in ballast to the white sea. It's all in here, all of it.
That's the whole story, that's how we poured him into the big sack. The main issue for me is still the stairwell. This passage is truly problematic: shiftless public with free hind-toe, in lexic mood.
She comes with conspicuous gambles, prancing outside with tinfoil or other conductive material. I was looking at the directions today. People are exhausted, wearied by demise, the everyday fragile. She's ex-cathar. Occasionally it does that, runs on, switches reader for writer. It's possible I may even die myself at sometime. Despite the melancholy we find something excessively strong has obtained a hold. She stumbles, eye bleary upon the postern stair. Some are terrified; I'm exhausted. These are brand new. He's existed. Can't we swap them about. We cease combat for a time. Attendants shuffle mudfooted to the field of play. Lances drop; visors lift. The pivot rusts. Let him have knowledge of who I am, cowhead (but slow down).
The forecast is thrifty. Find your unique code printed beneath the seal. They close in. If they fall over it's not our problem. I notice they have gills. She places her radical credentials on the table, something about a design for a bridge involving a huge fibreglass cock. I say be still, human hair is a document. The old arcade is closing down, the end of the end of the pier.
He walks away. Something scatters across the stone floor, red around the eye and resolute. You suffer too much. You offer too much. I use systems theory to relocate the curse. It's not quite how it was last time. That's our problem. Now provide a complete impression of our entire output. You've lost the rain—in my pages thoughts and remembrance fit together.
I've never been in there. It's called a dank fogou. There's a curve in one of the comic sections, but I'm up for it, you naughty gaoler. The equation exists: a similitude called home, also comfort. Earth is measured on a grand scale, surveyed with allowance for the curvature. Team B constructs a fragile dome by combining, but we're not going off at such a tangent. The murmur as they labour is like silent prayer. Keep your self clean, flung clear, with defangled memory.
I'm looking out for a glint in the dry grass. I can't bring myself to place him under manners. You could hardly have it in plainer terms. At his base the descending vessel leaves no space. It's a lift, I think. His fluid is condemned. Volunteers close in hauling sacks of stress pigs. Much impromptu use of the theremin at this station.
Anagram of the name. She was frolicking on the strand when it struck, and could never have known. She loses a foot, then finds it again. Don't go back last night. My life is an expansive life, and for no good reason. You know me—if there's one day left, I'm going to. You have absolutely no choice but to do this.
I usually put that one in because it's shaped like an ear. We had expected the missing hand. Void of explanations, I leave. I'm interstitial, but to see the bone beneath the skin is unnatural. His last word is definition (too cryptic). I'm pretty sure about that. Perhaps in spirit my has-been-extinguished is not entirety. I loved without utterance—no neural damn, like triangles, circles, and squares. On this side of the frontier there's a use for tunnel vision. Drop forward. Drop back. Drop to one side. These are the ones who were last season. I now understand my sympathies better. They are sympathies.
He takes a number of deep bows and edges the telescope towards the sheet of paper. In his hand sits a big stick with three circles on it. I'll have to answer for this. He sits in a corner and rants about collapsing buildings. I make up my mind to dismiss: our bunkering days are over. Two metres to go. I resolve to build my own contrivance. I recognize the pertinence of my return, and you can imagine the complexion my nights have assumed. We record that a liability to sudden conversion is among his peccadillos. I respond (this mourning). We leave before anything can happen.
I will text. What about the atlantic.
Cage. Silence. Either still put until you get the.
It's not the air. They cannot have anticipated how successful it was going to be, at the end of the line, underforgotten, I think.
Cut out fair crude. White columns glow, the bisecting plane of light.
Medium: spectral flecks on woodchip. It belongs here with the others. Our vantage point is exemplary, what the Germans call an Aussichtspunkt. Once these concerns are dealt with, I'll feed her again. Enjoy less air. If I don't get away by myself and try to work, I'll implode. She's spotted something. I retreat to my hole in the mud and struggle with feint play. My policy is utter. Always move on or risk losing shape. Forget eye contact.
It falls away. The last thing they want is a witness. You can share it, can't you, this absence as we read. The usual tiredness comes. We portion and share out her body, trade her carbon. Off with her boot-hook. She doesn't say a word about the missing fieldwork. It appears out of nowhere, without graft, without manoeuvring to face. Advantage us. That's not her latch, so she can't have done it. We've got to leave. I quit the stage magnificently. My box is the type that's carved out of soap. I've added on as much as I've scaled away. Lather pours out through the opening vein. Ever the misanthrope, I'm relegated to the cellar. But I shall squeeze through by the breadth of a poppy seed, Baptiste.
We two, as the years pass by our eyes resemble.
I can't believe they're still out there.
He exits stage left, pursued. Justice, at last.
I often entertain the idea of leaving a key, a legend, and then forget. I watch the first series, then her steps. Her aspectual form is like a tailbone. On to the open sea, exposed coasts and islands. Around these parts the land merely punctuates, scoria with dross metal and steam holes. Less conscious than disdain.
She's a freelance, a floater, a wouldbe furioso beneath the cap of the face: (evangelist) the cochlea or eucharistic spoon. Good news is set up as a saving principle. I've never seen her so happy. We place her remains in a careful shoe box (I don't want to talk about the demands on discipline). The twist lies in the memorial nature of the phenomenon. If I could have got hold of you that day, I'd have struggled you. Do you want to be treated or not. A bill poster pastes up a compression. It's Ecclesiastes, something about the inevitable collapse of our fortification. We'll need a lightning rod. The wheel too is broken at the cistern. Do not whet the edge. There's an archaic residue left that defies assassination. Pun on bell, break the fast. Mark my words, and don't miss the apotheosis in the lift.
He draws closer to his theme in years. The cycle is a cycle of love, disappointed. Me, I choose the easy way out. I need a methodology that can accommodate my idleness, make an aesthetic of my native sloth. Some of the methods I use are quite foul. We look at our case with apparent ease, when really we're dangling from the lowest, claws dug into tempest.
Music. Enter invisible. Through his art he foresees the danger. He sends me, or his project dies. There's a blue flash next door, rumour of amputated limbs, altered faces, and a faint air of persiflage. This is unavoidable. It's the treatment, courtesy of the English. Embellish those accomplishments. A piano can be seen, cross-section of a baby grand, with obligatory tape loops. Who's in charge of the thermostat around here. This is not what we shall be doing when life is worth living again. Sometimes it stops for a few seconds. It spreads out and resettles its wings.
They don't speak above a whisper. Outside in the clearing she says. Better go quiet. They reach the edge. She stops him. Now she's in the backroom with her ivories, the final glimpse. A melancholy tune, but it functions. I'm unsettled, unsensed.
It's like that time with the desultory piano within the gentle rise of the old town the dank cellar smell that causes her to weep at their parting.
He reads like a list of nomads. The route through the squares with plane trees to the station. Fear not; I make this as I pass. What I cut is scant but significant, a code of practice. Fences are down. Two facts are brought into focus: the letter is searched for everywhere and cannot be found. Some amongst us have clearly been manufactured abroad.