 |
| Parenthetical Rejoinders |
It's here that we've constructed what warmth we have. We'll read out loud for the world to like this place. Here it is that clots of cream will tumble into the folded egg that is to be tempered with a pinch of salt. Who knows from regret so simple and so cold now. Who knows to set up their own connection, to follow the Service Provider’s (SP) instructions.
Password: douchebag
SID: dogmatic96
Who would print this document and then store it inside of a heavy box safe for future reference. Who would instead savor this like a moment that's been soaked sweetly in fumes of grass until it has conjoined with a subtle opus of truest violet.
"Harmony harmony how? It's the state of the row all up and down," That's what he says to the kids in the close seats. They lean in like they're a bevy of hats on short poles. "But it's not hat season," he observes. "The way of it isn't south through Rocky Mt and then on to GloryHollow. It's north kiddo's, it's north along the shabby crack of the Platz, all the way up to the Manner's mirror even."
"Here we are as anarchists, boys. We're unrepresented and still we are beautiful. Because, we are the people. To wish for the security of a government, any government is to step back and to pray that the blessings and the wishes of all of our fishes have evolved like those of bullets from butterflies. We are the people divided by our nods. Our resources, our joy be parsed as once a grid," here the writing trails off. It becomes an illegible scrawl. It's a witless and simple line of fancy motion, didactic and drunk.
"Violence is no lark. Violence is the key to the state's palace," Owen yells at his boys. His stoop makes him seem like a cracked stone. "It's the key of its own creation, all snake eating its own tail. Violence doesn't just beget violence as such. No no, the state is begot from violence. This state, that state, any state at all are had from, BAM! Then sweep and the scope of our conceit is dimuned becoming shabby and pale," He goes on. "The state defines the policy that reconciles our ability to make and to share, to predict and to organize our own violence in the states interest alone."
"Bower, bowl and ball of mice, such fragile as things to tweet they all but break like meat," Owen quotes roughly. Then he turns away from the raised chairs, the kids, and the kids hats like they're hats on poles. "Pommelgranite, that's right, not the fruit of this," Owen spells pommelgranite like it sounds. His white chalk squeals as it cries.
Then when he's finished the work of underlining Owen turns 'round again, "Look at this, it's a thoughtful rebuke of the misanthropes whose petty deeds have intentionally set about dismantling our system of public betterment. Here's to those that have worked to redirect its financing into partnerships with companies that have no vested interests in the success of this complex system of neighborhoods and the people that rely on such things for a measure of hope."
"Here we are as anarchists, boys. We're unrepresented and still we are beautiful. Because, we are the people. To wish for the security of a government, any government is to step back and to pray that the blessings and the wishes of all of our fishes have evolved like those of bullets from butterflies. We are the people divided by our nods. Our resources, our joy be parsed as once a grid," here the writing trails off. It becomes an illegible scrawl. It's a witless and simple line of fancy motion, didactic and drunk.
"Violence is no lark. Violence is the key to the state's palace," Owen yells at his boys. His stoop makes him seem like a cracked stone. "It's the key of its own creation, all snake eating its own tail. Violence doesn't just beget violence as such. No no, the state is begot from violence. This state, that state, any state at all are had from, BAM! Then sweep and the scope of our conceit is dimuned becoming shabby and pale," He goes on. "The state defines the policy that reconciles our ability to make and to share, to predict and to organize our own violence in the states interest alone."
"Bower, bowl and ball of mice, such fragile as things to tweet they all but break like meat," Owen quotes roughly. Then he turns away from the raised chairs, the kids, and the kids hats like they're hats on poles. "Pommelgranite, that's right, not the fruit of this," Owen spells pommelgranite like it sounds. His white chalk squeals as it cries.
Then when he's finished the work of underlining Owen turns 'round again, "Look at this, it's a thoughtful rebuke of the misanthropes whose petty deeds have intentionally set about dismantling our system of public betterment. Here's to those that have worked to redirect its financing into partnerships with companies that have no vested interests in the success of this complex system of neighborhoods and the people that rely on such things for a measure of hope."
Comments