Feral Velocity of the Big Guys

Wow.

This is disheartening. After barely scratching the surface of the idea of candy, I am forced to abandon the design for this evening I had planned so carefully.

I think about the natural fluctuation/wiggle room inherent in orchestral and choral masterpieces. I consider the flavors of top shelf salad dressings available to me at the grocer. I am nonplussed. I determine that a nasty breakfast everyday is, alas, a valuable part of humanity’s genetic legacy.

There's still time to ask me about a compulsory but rarely used useless cat I may know!

Someone Guesses My Weight in Plastic Beads

I'm on top of the red vehicle now, I'm high on the new vapor. I'm wearing parts of three child's costumes and they admirably protect the modesty I've worked so hard to achieve. Sarah and Raj and Mitch Raymond are on the ground in the dirt with the butts of cigarettes and the scraps of campaign flyers and the ichnology of fighting youth. The three of them are singing a song together and it is glorious in its lack of harmony, in its crude sentiment, in its shameless volume.

The dead things in the holes around us aren't vibrating, and the factory swell of the town past the woods is stifled under the heat of the Milky Way. The people of the town and the mayor they call their own have books to read and decisions to make about the sheltering of their fears and the growth of their offspring. the roads to the horizon are crooked. The pavement we lay is rough. It isn't the work we want to see, the work that betrays the keen expertise of its creator.

The road into this untended parcel is a beaten and forgotten ribbon taken back by the workings of the dead things in these holes around us.