Printing.
Gobs and globs of glib printing. All and one and nine none forebears later, the beginning is quite late in the season to compete with young girls or made men. Trust me, it cannot be done. I lob a few oysters at the carapace, recalling last Monday's conversation in the mountain drive thru New Hampshire about carbuncles and acne as in the form of glacial activity and tectonics. My accountant is an odd feller, but these are the conversations that station between sandwiches during our drive. The truck handles remarkably well and it's great to shift a vehicle like that-- to feel the gears and have the windows down and feel the stick roll into fourth and roar with testosterone. The made men and ladies would scribble their brows probably. Too banal, too simple, they'd complain. Ink it, though. A grey veneer that's palpable to the smell and sines and I swear there's a leer that keels an underlay of staring, rejection, and even the possibility of hope. Glyphs and petrol and thinking. It's been a mad onset these last few days of printing, printing, and more printing... variables await, sure. Like a dope, it's work and craving as well-- mostly foodstuffs like ketchup or regret. A girl posts "roulette yrself" during an episode of husobliviogue last night. Maybe I made it too shiny (?) but Tzara and his probable (-25 vote) gives a hypotheme and injection; a stand to the green pedestal and hanker of self worth that betrothes the deemed store of approval and common courtesy. Nothing to be shamed about work, ink, acne, and shiny outpourings. Too bad we're all critics with no magazines in paper to verify our blight and spite. Bah, no matter! And civilization? Meh.
(eyes used for tooth support)
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