I am a numbered sea, casting waves of torrential rains that decimate the standards, more stronger every day. My daughter, the poor Pythagorean, lost her London Flog coat on her birthday, that was on a Tuesday, and by my mind I've seventeen reasons to rub you out with a rollercoaster. Don't call them my buttons just because they are in front of me to be pressed. In the memorandum I signed the day I died, to sea from shiny sea, a tidal wave down the Columbia River.
Of meager intelligence, I shift in shame from rage, absolute rage. The totality forces are forcibly informing their meaning and meetings just now, as we speak, in this corridor. I am hiding nothing. When emptied, my pockets, they shine like crazy diamonds, but there is nothing but hope inside. I empty my pockets every day, give my few dollars to the buddah under the gutter grating that greets me on my mindnight walks home. His tentacle hands reach out, and the pass-by is complete, with me in full satisfaction. Like Michael Jackson or something, or so I thought.
They want their power, they want to wield it so strong that the signal-to-noise ratio is cancelled out, way out. Give them noise, they'll eat it for breakfast because they've forgotten what they are capable of, the eradication of the renaissance being has been swiped for some other form of power. And they'll weild their sticks, because they're getting ready.
And the only thing left to do is tune out, or fall into it as I am fond of saying. But I see an iceberg rising, and my daughter is on top and that multiplies my interest, the mathematic field, filed with the other equations in mimetic, gravitational and data fields, and giant football field swap meets. An old friend waits there. He is the commodore of your life's trip, you are the boat of my consciousness and you float on the water without want.
If there was any remainder of the candy I had in my pocket, or the old shriveled up Halls I used to carry in my over-alls, I'd give it hell to you now. I'd give you 64 pieces. Morphogenetically, I'd I-Ching you this, tao you that, and throw in the subterranean buddah wino qi-flow for an extra quarter. Because I'm taking this act on the road, I meant it when I said I Love You, but I've meant it less every time I've said it, when I look into my eyes, I see you, but the vision is blurred, as if I'm under water, and I can't tell if I'm living it up large, like we meant it to be?
I'll pursue my panamas, I'll continue dancing around the iceberg where my daughter waits, I'll reach my sea to stretch in between the continents, I pass on that question, no comment. I've just got the temporary motor control hues.