No more which than you. It's as if every place were aware of every other place. I don't intend the repetition and shall apply to various heaps for sustenance. The ascension state catches up at the close. I'm set against a background of sponsored word games. Go see to the dimension.
This won't take long. It's immense, complicated, and I haven't even begun the research yet. Why didn't he simply get out of the way. One arm of a scale moves down and up, oblivious to the dull motive of gravity. Hold me fast at the centre of the horizon. The state: it's me—a transfigured use of the foregoing and an accidental success. I'm socially disappointing. One is power, the other more killer.
Two of origin are accidentally electrocuted. Unless it's the carnage, you're in. Everything is way more objective than anticipated. Let's bleed some unsense. I miss sound. Which way are you going (we all loosen up after a time on the run). There is a rain of scribble, erring and erasure which it's my intention to spike further on down the road.
One winter morning and snow is falling outside the window in the foggy dim. The nettles are limp. Inside, we are all shock. Get ready, I say, I can't reach the attention. There's no time for your references: sackbone fetid, gum-resin deep in salty soil, brittle with dried stigmas. Into backtrot slip the ordinary runners. What else can I have missed. She compromises the various stages in the production. We're all kept busy making the same combustible. Suddenly she is not. There is a rule but I don't know what it is. The tongue is burned by heat from without. A hastily assembled firing squad takes aim. The flag snaps. There are words scratched across a wall. Into the back of the convoy jog the runners. Are these eggs under your skin. Find somewhere equally quiet, you don't realize how narrow it is. My mouth skips a beat.
He has made of himself some further signs of grace. He peers out from the experiments of others—something very technical to do with light. I'm not going to change anything. One is broken on the wheel. I have to make decisions on an individual basis. We're moving in the direction. Being drawn has begun. I don't like that arm. Being quartered has begun. He is a man at the point of execution. Mobile and shrouded, he's hungry enough to kill for the rest of us. He's like an Eastertide statue, shrouded and not. All of the aims here are bad aims. What about that street runs parallel. He says something has to break.
Moving from side to side at the edges of a bridge. More cauterized optimism. I could sit here forever (temperaments, for what they're worth, are with us to stay). I don't think that one's going to survive. I'm renamed after one of the minor planets and I am indifferently awed: scales and apparitions, a comedy goal but no laughing matter. He makes a note: Wednesday, exorcism, basement with metal turntale. The space is the bivalve space.
And so to the name. The old man's a field of battle, his aorta swells and ruptures, the great arterial trunk that journeys out from the heart. He receives scanning and anointment. You could say the pitch has been tilted in his direction.
They go upstairs, along with some others who happen to be there. They come to a cage which holds a feral boy. Something has been placed on his ledge. Maybe it's the light, solidified. The mouth of the Nile is scratched on one wall, all her venous tributaries at the outflux.
We hire a narrative tracker. Now he's round the back. Now he's on the roof, wailing and de-spiriting. Can you tell us what he says. He stabs at the edge of the rip.
A galaxy is flushed from the mouth. They aren't going to let me in. I'm flattered and I tell them so. Because I will forget, after this I'm going to partition and share out the head. I would then yes—yes to all, so notoriously shut away as I am.
This part's the most difficult step. It was like speaking ill of the dead and I could not bring myself. What hurts is that she's been left alone here all the night. I've not felt this way for years. She's febrile. The name trespasses. I give witness. Some find it anathema, others release. She can no longer control the anger; first it comes with detachment, then with presentiment.
I'm acting like a man whose days as a stranger will soon be over. They vector in on our position. Shadow of a wing across the forehead the eyes. We go back in time seven years. The law is due to self-combust in one hour. There's a mechanical clock in the corner that tells. Do you remember when we first did, with handpainted static sparking across the body? Lamentable lack of ready this season, both before she comes and after she comes. Back then we were always jumping off stuff.
I ate enough to make it justifiable. Is everyone ready for this: the officer in question is probably a mole. He surfaces. His emblem is a cross with the centre left out. Five thousand turn up on the day. He takes his place in a corner, sweater torn. We have been placed here to gently ruminate. The second field is divided into two parts. You are what I wrote.
She plays the limpet involuntary which is well known and into other pieces. Folk applause. Five thousand turned up. You said they would. This is where I end.
He detests physical labour and prefers to sit outside in the wet grass. I have no problem with that. By now he could be anywhere; out on the cobble, falling out and in of love. Cross over to the other side.
You get a sense that something is whistling by you. I don't wish to sadden with the nothing—talk of endgame—one under the bed, the desk, a flag cracking at the top of a turret. I've brought your coins in from the split earth. Go upstairs, door to left, stencil or template to season, to equilibrium. We can't use those, they're hollow. These are ordinary times, yet still I remain stubbornly sectarian, exiled to a two-vault room. I've been asked specifically about the areas. Temperament is a subject we're putting to good use: glint murmurs of the time, a soft tongue to every wall. Park your bet. The further in I go the further away lies the spot of light at the end of the tunnel. It looks as if it's getting very cold out there. I'm returning to the quotidian state. They're cutting off our neural supply. I'm replying to the voice I sent myself, I want to talk, whispers embedded in plaster. Some sequences are carriers. Change the room. Change everything.
He is repelled by the middle head. It's too long for puzzle and its neck is too short. Gristle swells in the stomach. The second segment provides a geopolitical reminder. A burning mountain or foundry symbolizes the province. She starts to sing. Did you lose the map? I remember one drink fashioned into the furniture. Awake north and draw south, with kisses of the mouth. What is recovery. What sort of evidence has been procured. Stay close. Pages are transferred into neat rows. I don't do plurality, striving after names. Here comes brown bear. He is inside out after passing from knowledge to knowledge. He's a dispatched message. Something hands me a card: it reads. It reads across the bitter fathoms of the sea, tied to the deck where space is sovereign: Hotel Menorah Lung Club. The inmates include mortician bodies with stripped action and societal hinges. Pick out an option. Of a sudden, breath comes good with a name. She overlooks his shoulder. One leg is off. There has to be some kind of an explanation for what I've seen tonight.
My aim is true: crossed keys. How do you know all this. First of all we need a clear description of everything that is. He inherits himself. He has said this before. Resurface under a different name—a band apart, a trope of outcasts, ownerless objects. I remember that old-fashioned. How many characters in the hold now.
The Nile delta is traced in red biro. Its tributaries don't attach to the major artery. Chips are scooped into the wrong baize hole.
A bead of sticky crimson forms at the tip of his cock. He rolls the nub between thumb and index. Picture a man stroking a sheaf of paper. You should think yourself lucky: if the puzzle were octagonal it would have cost you your head. When I first took this on I thought it was a runaway shape—a vitrine with crumpled paper, a vitrine with sphere, crawling. Now I'm not convinced by this trade that always sits beyond my scope. It's good that he's laying his cards back on the table (you remember that boneyard).
She approaches the edge of the edge, and always backs off. This is the pattern. But she always returns to the lip. Those remaining name their places and things after animals.
Early still dark, heart. The heart promises total control but no one knows. It's set at 108 degrees. Start: ground rent, the familiar irrepressible. This is slow, painstaking work without pay. There's an exchange of dead and dying goods: the head of an ox, the brain-batter of a ram. Surges of strength, the unapproachable, and nothing else. You can keep the dead scaffold. Put it on film, fix a date. Deficiencies are glimpsed in the span.
I'm going to release next year. She's away for precisely one lunar, so long a stretch an eclipse comes. Funny game this, a life spent alongside a ball of fire that never goes out. It demands the easiest of solutions, and sure enough the required people come. He writes that he's going over to the other side, sewn up into a little sack like the sleeve-stumps of an armless. He is repeated but very sparingly.
They no longer have the wall behind them but instead crouch near the lower edge. I believe I am concessionary; where I come from, proof doesn't exist. They are not ready for this, the quality of a thing that makes it unique or describable. Have you tested. He makes mistakes, undoable mistakes. A new look crawls out into the sunlight and takes up position, ringside. Note: bring pair of binoculars next time. Voices from the outside. Voices from the lean ports of the body. We're haemorrhaging air.
I have a sense of the danger in it. I'm a little too close to the radiator. He learns big form from the experiments of others. I keep them apart. It's past, I'm no longer operating. She kills him by forgetting. They meet at the threshold. There's no light, food is strewn across the floor. The preferred alternative must fit the budgetary constrictor. The dog is swallowed whole, a cartoon shape squeezed through the gullet. O yes they say, she hasn't touched anything at the scene and didn't notice anything, but still I don't like that aim she's taking. What hex can only out again?
Until recently we had our own cake and daily trepanation, our workaday reprimand. I was aware this would involve a titanic struggle but nothing has prepared me. We are told one thing and another thing happens. Just the white streak down the side remains, the aftershock.
I don't remember what came first. Who's that noise. That's me standing at the corner. The centre expands at the convergence of severed roots. Gentle rain spreads through the bisecting beam. Well look at me now. This is a beautiful spot and I know how much it means to you. The dissonance confirms we've met a centred point.
He owns not a stone. I'm doing the night creep, sifting in between lines of the law. Perhaps he wants to make a little crypto machine. I'm pretty sure they are not the lost five thousand. It takes place. The on-flux means instil, and from the meaning of wood as grace. Today I'm anxious to get a clear insight into the facts, work out conditions related to an unseen.
I'm held at counterpoint to her unbending sense that everything here is perceived. Have you coded to her name. How long does it take. She spends forty-five minutes looking. I'm the owner of the idea—there is bound to be the odd spark. Say something before the sense invades. Like hollow ponds, with reed mace from one of the filters. I'll let you know when I need your philosophy.
One day the engine and she starts singing, crying out loud. People don't watch anymore. One day you resent and they stop talking. He neither could nor would long for any change in status. There's a net within which they lie apart from each other, still alive in the mud. The shape is a strange shape. The approach is the threshold approach.
You clearly know your emptinesses. He won't do the even numbers, always lays money on the odd. He never wins. How went the day, how went it that day with the ring. Two stalk in the street. I must admit to no other than myself (lack of substantive proof). I take effect without a mordant.
You hear the wrong word. He's on a diurnal circuit and there is a long loop corralling his head. The hum of the voice sounds like a pierce of undercurrent gold cracked within the eye-socket. We can't be seen making use of the light. He is hideous dead, part of the passed. The porter sees it happen. I want to be rid of the audience, the familiar mass of coming-to-termness. She has broken my blood.
From across the street I thought that shock head was thee. I take a trip across terrain, consent to swear purpose—purpose on an oath, my very own aloud. Do you hear that man below in the cellarage. Of a sudden breath comes good. He denotes a chosen period of time past. I'm very forgiven. Memory has him; this is the synopsis, anyway. I take a trip on a train and I think about you.
Individual flood people. Early still dark. Individual flood people. His choice of language, he seems to be saying, corresponds with his exhilaration—studies, projects for an ungrateful country. I'll shout if you're too near the edge.
With broken blood I change the numbers. I remember I felt sheltered. Pins are eased into the body. Vessels break. The aorta swells and ruptures. How was your balance that day. Everything is punishable (we're making decisions). He's left angry and bent double, old limner of blacks. I am left alone with a subtle bruise. It was like watching men at work: an annihilation. Can you hear anything. Coins rattling in a plastic bucket. We restrict ourselves to a chosen subject, the inner canal. We owe it to ourselves to resist and abstract. You've lost me. I think the sirens are louder. I don't like this drama at the end of the second empire. Come home. Will they hand on in the night. Incoming, the bisecting iron strikes at forty-five degrees of angle.
I answer one little question, I know one of the songs. Memory has him. Dark soon. I take a trip on a train and I think about you. Two or three cars are parked beside the stars, the adjacent fixed, circumpolar to drift. A winding stream, moon shining down on some little town (it's June). And with each beam the same old dream, and every stop we make I think of you. I draw down a shade. I speak through the track, the one going back. And she says, bring me an advent if you find one, please.