Never Mind the Beasts

29.

Syntax is sadistic and first rate grass hardens. I’m sick of proficient regrets and ach so I’m texting my way into a pre-emptive heaven which indeed is most modern.
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What is heralded in the folkloric plomp of our text spume. Read the text but don’t answer the questions. Which image do you like the most?
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Indivisible equations mother the sky but I’m searching for a softer seat to engage in Socratic discourse.
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It appears thought is a daguerrotype of a pharmaceutical climax. Have you ever created something artistic? Forget the crowds and what’s been taken from you. How do you deal with the new light?
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Hallucinating laughter and clogged with the bossman, dictating restlessness, I couldn’t stop looking at the fat faced boy racing around a tree with blinking shoes. I couldn’t stop myself from tonal clashes. Please help with the spotlights. I’m sure I’m gonna be somebody but I’ve got a few bits to do. A jolt from the electric fridge. It shits on its own darling. There’s something waiting by which a hue is red, cast-off by a glance and filthy around the edges. We are all distant bushels. Hardened.
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Salt broke the decks and a speckled eye is in the corner. Yes this is a painting and the walls are painted white how else could reality arise in immolation?
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We were insulated by the molten leather in Ravenscourt park. West London is not protected from the groans. Ah, the groans. Acute, and yet unable to speak.