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Schema, no mas grande marioneta

Despite the mess the paintings are beautiful and they're very old. They're well hung and make good use of the sturdy light from the hallway. From here in the doorway I can take them all in at once but I want to linger on each of them. I want to dote and be amazed so I move closer. It takes some time to examine even just the smaller pieces and I still feel that I'm missing something among them. An asymptomatic generational pattern of complex symmetry can appear if the tools being employed are either distinct or large enough. In this group I should be seeing regionalism and the state. The Son's of Noah with their puritanical racism and all of their hogs killing a snake. I should be seeing all of this but I'm not.
You said we'd know. We'd know darling and we'd know well. You said we'd know now. That's how you put it John, We're standing in line behind a charging wave of incense and self flagellation that's behind a herd of dots and homemade tight pants that's even further behind a tightrope walker and the tea cup guy. So we decided to get wasted and take turns hanging our wet clothes over the back of the sofa-couch. Then we'd talk about the Monstre' the Auxiliary and that guy from the hopper with the clicker-buttons. It's all a gas until the physics of it kicks in. After some sharing we realize that we're in a toxic maze of concrete and steel designed to look like this simple box like thing. Cultural advancement, at least as a provision of personal gain is built right into it. It's part of the box's function. It amplifies the false positives that keep us on task and moving around inside here. The Monstre's like this friction and the friction's joule like heat and disturbing imbalance.
They pour the poor Fellows into these cubes that only reflect the nature of them what casts 'em out, Laslow adds.
So it is, Priscilla says handily. They'll need to remove us far enough away to watch the creation of their broken institutional apparatus. It's not for us, so we need to get out of here alive. We can't lay around here talking about the bad stuff anymore.
I know I know, I interject. My wet shirt is steaming at the end nearest the radiator. The large open windows in the project's galley rattle when another gust of wind blows through the old building. Our work table is covered in broken blades cold pry bars and a variety of assorted hasps handles triggers and buttons all painted red. Pree has her feet slung up on it's edge while she leans back and cradles a cup of hot chikory coffee.
Bud+LU are a danger to themselves and every other damn cat that's near enough a sack and some water, Laslow's looking for his roll ups in the back behind the old stack of doors. This isn't the way out kids, he shouts across the room. It's got to be made up while we get on with it. You're both looking for the dot-dot-dot in the ALL CAPS. I can see it and I hate to dash your hopes but we're sinking here and their ain't no time to be waiting on no thumb grasses or cherry flavored button holes or the like. 


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