Ecclesiastes (once entropy has cried herself to sleep)

Talking again at an empty shelf, to some small profits that have gathered there.
Wait I'm a curator of cultural artifacts too. Wait up please, The mild force in this otherwise diffused exchange waves and waves. Micromanaging and disorganized panderers is what the hands-on seats at the front of this bus look like. That's where the do it yourself crowd like to sit when they hop on. Next stop, Get-Things-Donesville. With their jaunty caps and their garish capes hanging just so. They sit behind the driver like super heroes, signing the Declaration of Independence over and over again. We're going to the apple farm for the whole day. The high branches and the sweet smell of failure is so distant and there's a special teacher for everyone. They'll say, You're so special, Little Special Pigeon. Or they might whisper, You're just a ray of sunshine in this vast space of ubiquity. Some will suggest, Lets pull some of that low fruit from those deeply pregnant limbs. Or cheer by way of flattery, Jump up, yes jump up little darling. But they'll never admonish when then can encourage, Look at my little Curator go, I've got you.
This is a plain enough game of acumen, diluted as it is in this lofty space. Especially where the region of it's boundaries have remained so apparent. Still letting this work hang here like this is a reeling temptation for me. It hints at the dopeness of wack bodies that are unfolding from coital delirium or at the per chance happenings of frozen spastics and the harried bee as it sings, There's a great big pile of piled up people going down to their downtown jobs all those bunnies and the turtles teeming singing with the mob mob mob There's the windup people in the cheap seats looking at the piles of people in the green streets singing riot to the mob mob mob
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