He's chasing fame of
course. San Francisco.

The stone buildings symbolized nothing.

The dead old
car had a flat tire.

He entered an empty house with

empty flower pots and windows.

He slid down the hill carrying
a shovel. There was a white flower shrub.

Piles of great
sticks lay down trodden.
He stopped, anticipated a karate chop, she was gorgeous, had
short hair and was near a brick on the ledge, luxury
was a cost, an empty bowl was blue, cereal was stolen.
Fraudulent downtown was court houses, his cigarette was
the wall. A fridge was a red topped tableware silverware with clothes stirred in
a chair faced backwards - you're inferring!

I thought you were beautiful:
You said you'd build your tomorrow, cake and flower,
Slough the hospital Ford with pillboxes envious of celebrities who reflect an insignificant person. Glory be the false pretenses, you see, newly-mown grass, subtle kidneys on the roof, pale widows falling into Othello.

The river of a woman in pants near the lake with some white on the dusty surface of the water was a box of doves, he walked into the water.

The waterfall was permanent and looked back long with high shoes on.

Short and long - a string
of wisdom is a hungry laboratory, marvelous teeth were prodigious. It is scare and it is big, and your skills and techniques need to make the ordering quality, decanter of living specter, your safety is instead a categorical imperative, the store a question of Office. Abject garbage, to the agitated dust! In and among the leaves, little house tortilla, is a future newspaper made of fresh newspapers? Leave, because we drove cars downtown high and were afraid of cops and authority figures. Our girlfriends were in the other house, perhaps across the country, but yelled in ****** moans at us while we wrote good stories of joy and Thanksgiving. We were hallelujah-like and saw men and their sons, drive around us on their way to soccer fields, while we sometimes ran in parks and looked at the highway, where the cars drove fast. Pretty and attractive girls made us invisible specks of disaster, I am unhappy today friend, tomorrow is Thanksgiving, November 21st, 2018. I am a thief, I get called a loser at 3in the morning while I go outside to smoke a cigarette, your tire is on fire and my dreams are of houses, last night I dreamt of my house, are chicken nuggets from Mac-Donald's, I felt attractive. When my father dies and mother passes, I will be 35, alone, the weather is not raining and snowing, it is, in fact, hot. In a bed writing more scribbled lines, ugly and awake, perhaps not wanting, hopefully thin, near emaciated, and I will play the piano thinking of my neighbors and the country, I will have a John Ashberry book on my shelf and on page 35 in Commotion of the Birds will be a holiday special line - much like today - something obscure - and if you don't, then I hope, and I do hope, you have a happy day.
-

I made a mistake! I admit it. There was a lot of sense but in particular the language of William James is quite beautiful, animate or inanimate. The living constitution of our fore fathers is nothing but a brief and wondrous time, I suppose, our past motives are nothing but an image of a big large world - and it is complicated and Virginia Woolf does agree but says nothing.

Because it is complicated, the men of learned ages who only speak of a solid nature are on the whole an affirmation of a matter related to wisdom. There a concept! An antiquated matter but serves only as time in a corruptible emotion, a pure eruption of being into a disposable irritable master piano. The people, nakedly sit in their living rooms, the subject is no object - he is alive, I am nervous, a traveller and a brother, a dead friend, lost, a classical insight, something arguable - an expression of Virgil, I'm sure of it.

He said, "life is a situation."

An integrative biologist said: "it's my understanding that if time is to unfold but is not a solid nature, as proposed, then it is a stream of thought."

My first philosophy said: "An agreement to not ignore but accept ignorance. It was a strange feeling, a difficult feeling, like a description of vivid and green flowers.

the news was fresh like a vulture, our dogs walked along rough terrain

we were in public and happy, attractive before girls,

unabashed I smiled, or shook my head, and made my way past.

RIVER

the kitten is near a small painting, it had many days to await
us a true painting & black & white, greyhound dogs

ROOMS

held in his bed there was a turn table, it had a lot of knobs.
he had long hair - no name - stolen book awards.

IN THE LIBRARY

Hunter S Thompson painted the house, the interior walls were thin and sound proof, her walls were dark brown, they were rich and flavorful.

THE BEACH

we found several diamonds, we waited for eternity, in parks I wore a purple shirt, the light bulb