For these years, in pedigree a pattern persisted, running on platforms in pursuit of a democratic union of body parts and intention. I am my own worst weasel, and longjohned to the cuff, I keep warm on mars bars and toaster crumbs. Finding the right key for just a second in our life is often enough to keep us singing.
Last week Osmose Woodfume had visited this porch. He head with him, he had hid a head, after stealing the neurons. Not one to make judgements about that. You see, we hear on the porch here just about any kind of talk.And we're never suprised when the talk starts dripping into different things. We're not suprised at all.
It do it for us. For us, do it. It do it us for, wherefore wrong turns? Wherefore, whathow --what now? Where for with the where withdrawl, a bonnet to hold them all. Reuptake is not enough to set you free. Enough to set you free.
"Where is the clock?"
"Just around the corner, but over the border, there's no way to tell time down there." He reads over a page many folded nooner novel, his eyes on the slap-back attack, every few moments rescuing him from an unknown sleep demon theme on death & dying, worth & wilting.
He's gone just as easily as he is there. My life without causality is one lived in perpetuity, but the tremors and vibrations kreep back up at me, my nervous system in tremors and a swarn of noisy crickets land in my hair, one seems to be networked and plugs directly between my callosum. And that was life, let me tell you. Not like life used to be, before the process was revolutionized, televised, revised, and devised. I was on the team that built those politics. I've been on every team since.
This will to power I can never understand. All that is left for me is this removal of power, this becoming everything instead anything and just diving in to the consciousness I know is out there and spend a good few weeks, come back out ready to tell the tale--like Osmose Woodfume. He always told a damn fine story.