Monday, February 22, 2016

Very stairs. Slight cereal bowl. To Andy's delight, the misery in
prison is merely alchemical; the ironic avatar of humanity, through
the wormhole to Damascus (in a tomato), is data; like any law-victim
controlled by the minority report, Andy must eat cells on the
moon and dunk veins like a weary hitchhiker in the very Sync he'd
alienated, cooking shameful vacuum whilst Disney-delving missing
chill in a poignant severing, puzzling by GPS to help snuggle by the light
of day, pieces of information onrushing; amazing climax, abnormal....
the glib, retired astronaut expects the root of a color chart pulled out
like a chip crawling out of his chest. Intelligent air leaking blasts
of Utopian mash-up, revealed cave.... kicking, he fucks the
biggest television that breathes graphics ripping off their own
secret fabric; fucking a pig like a gross pillow, underlining penis
exhalation, with sound, all layers merry occult Broadway dulcet:
the moment poised to split ears; sticky overlain actor-screenshots
trapped in Comic Con melancholy with girl-folds in spotless
animation for the hilariously flexing pop-up lion's wicked Empire's
hidden camera's gnaw.... In the wings, edible swag enshrines
the central gazebo and encrypts peripheral rubble, disrupting dreams
into a straight pile into which Fassbinder's bicycle thieves sink a
freaking bell. Mood-soaked pavement Andy must therefore DM smooth
package folds for, for fear of a tree. 

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