the eat your own inscription issue
the ed has something to say
He could not locate her except vaguely somewhere above, vaguely somewhere folded in among the studs and plastered partitions
some bitter spiderman suitcases. iím afraid i canít come to life
there's something to the really old ones that just makes you want to go ahead and put a space before and after them. See here, it's empty after where the Blondie is.
Note in waste spaces, frame those sleepy mappings. In these robin-rich carbon-dioxide absorbing green tailings, as if rhythms should bind, hinted and spoken.
And the hunters (he writes), the irony seems to be that they didn't know their own lord, that, as in a dream, the stag Actaeon tried to speak but no words would issue forth and so he could not save himself.
I have heard but never felt men who skin women with the back of a hand
I saw a dog wearing a cowboy hat. It was a dog-customized cowboy hat, small, red and attached to his head by a tight elastic band. I thought he looked cute. This dog was going along with it. This dog held up his end of the leash.
The girls, impatient as a lounge, ceaselessly bursting and raving, replaced the chapters we remembered as showtunes
The Shifu opened his eye and seemed to search his skull for some stale feudal maxim. "Um, heaven will not hinder the traveler."
you will be informed by his hands. prepare for variation. hold on no matter what form he takes, and throw him into the well.
The portal, a circular outcropping of carved rock and bristling cosmic energy, is like a giant talking TV screen through which all of history is continuously broadcast.
tintinnabulations behind the eyes are not blood but sojourns of effulgence