I could hear Insufficiency flee from me at The Thinkers Hour, when sleep is halted and, on occasion the rooster is already cawing at the movements of Transiency.
I rise higher, scribing longer, recounting our Divinity, the boundlessness of Love, and the hues that the Sun dusts over cemeteries and trains alike.
It is then, as matter scaling the skyling, that decidedly I sink into Rapid Ply Healing.
There's only one skip on the CD. There's only time that is not absolute.
The barista spilled the milk and the customer replied, "Telekinesis, baby, telekinesis!" The mugging was designed and I must tread with the iridescence onto the next track.
There's only one skip but it repeats continuously There's no time because I like to say it's not real.
The director created a puzzle and the viewers play for so long. The overdose was placed and I must sing with plithiness the tenacity of my favorite number.
Preachers have more plagiarized content than singers. The old man I met on the sidewalk told me one of the Beach Boys locked himself in a basement and created his own fraction of notes, his own harmonies. I create a thought to push my voice from my gut out my mouth into the air. Now wiggling vibrations mingle with oxygen molecules and the place in space is rearranged. I created traction. This is it. This
Entropic threats loom and I told them to ******* from the start. Shouldn't is transparent because it plays warning fair. I tell my toes to move and they do. You're next.
You must take the wound, Face it, Squeeze it, Bite it, **** out the venom, Spit out the venom, Gather comfrey, Dress the once wound, Bandage it, Let it SCAR (it is now a reminder in this phase), LET IT HEAL