UmperKunst, Neoist's, and the Pillory Hoag with Emke

Prior to thee Turn 

Betta's upstairs was a mess. the thing had nearly tumbled in back in the thirties a couple of times. Later on in 22 the Thoroughway went up over the old FuPlease and this place nearly fell over. All that banging around left the most of the area empty. The slouches and toughs ran up to Gardenpoint. Some of them even got work with one or two of the jails they were converting. Some went further north. Those boys got to be the Tommy's that we always heard about from back in Haster's day. Lot of Tommy's got hurt bad a lot more got dead, that's what Haster said at least.
Order doesn't have to be happy or sensual, it's abnormal, all you can do is slap it on and have a look. Just slap it on, you'll see. Sure enough, as soon as the gloppy strokes hit the wall there was a sudden spray then they slid down in one long, wet, and tragic formation. There's four of 'em at least and we got the roof cheap, right? There's no pleasure in a screw. I've got a handful in my pocket right now. The problem at hand is whether or not this is rational, am I right?.
Where no markets exist there's no competition because competition is itself the primary exchange. This's a very purposeful era. It's very very discerning. There's no end of the super-hyper-abilities in it, Krieger looked down at milton. Fidgeting like he's stuck in a pool of humid shadow. Even the park is dangerous, especially the park.
Teaching is a necessary action, as such it's also a commiserate value that should be actively maintained rather than becoming confused for an imbued characteristic of the UmperKunst. Isn't it the rooms that we can't see that fail to be useful while it's the kitchen that's always the cleanest. Here the adequacy of this ashtray is dependent on my experience of it.
The ashtray, I've heard that the interactions among UmperKunst forms the catalyst for market conditions that will generally impact the exchange of pedagogical values necessary to extrapolate meaning from experience. There is no ashtray at all.
You're right, progress does fail in this specific sense. The determination of it's momentum is provided by the active agency of the UmperKunst. It's because the maintained values are unlike imbued values in the sense that they're measurable and negotiable. Unlike an imbued value, say. These aren't very often quantifiable as the attribution of their value remains entirely invisible in most instances. It's like they're tall or fat but they're hiding in the bathroom.
But not all of them are right? It's not some job that's devolving into a matchless curve of bliss?
We almost always have to go back to what we can see. This ashtray for instance, will become the cleanest ashtray ever. Therefore the unseen teacher teaches nothing in an UmperKunst of name and names only. There is no mercurial energy or spinal fluid to be found on the rug. Bliss is merely an extravagance left over from breakfast. The Monstre leans back in reflection. His robe is wool, it's not deaf. The floor beneath him is solid and his shoes sound worn and broken. Still, it's a fine and comfortable picture, a fire casting it's questions on the high wall. Searching for an intentional agent among the heaviest of the low apricots that he's had a hand in devising.
Let's suppose that the certainty of an old brown ladder is equal to the comfort of a well lit room such as this one. That the finitude he experiences in that place is not a barrier so much as it's the threshold to a more significant scheme. Let's assume that this is a comfort to the man with his hands in his pockets right now.
Straight lines are for flirting. The great and grand order of the UmperKunst, or more precisely what you are searching for within this math is only an ephemeral ideal. It's easily lost in the ubiquity of a very loud and brash culture of hotel rooms and dirty wigs. No, your conception of art is that of any of the more ordinary tools. But it's only the wisp of the apricot cast from another means into that end that switches it up. The thing about the apricot is that it's really not a very useful one. It only ever sits on your wooden shelf above your wooden desk like it's a fixed point inside of a day. A memory of pulp and fiber around which your experience is staged.
Still you'll attempt to complete this experiment. Despite only having one very special and very bent pearl handled ratchet thingy. In a world of deeper and more rich comparisons Bud+LU might step up and slap you solid for being such a sanctimonious pike end, and you might even laugh at them... Assuming that the entire world isn't being unreal, or perverse? Assuming that the entire world isn't being overly anarchic with its too many blind corners and all of those tumbling hats and so on?
No matter the cost, I'll still be there because I've got you.
You've got me, now. That's rich, you've got me. Well then who's got you?
The spring has sprung indeed. These aren't masterpieces. They're only the things that can be hung in a room. They'll stay put until the union breaks and the circle becomes undun once more. Let's think about the kind of party that we can have when the host is gone and the host is sleepy and the tea is just gone for good too. I think that we can. I think that we can fold our corners in together for a merry little while. So let us think on this and sing all the songs that we can in this sweet here and bye. Let's make this happen until the long bell rings again and again.
Out along the fat plain where the birds and the wind mark the space between eventualities and their purpose. As sob sob, goes the tragedy of vastness in this deep melancholy absent any purpose. Down with these aces, spaces and all. Down with Abigail, I laugh for the sound of it but the woolen room doesn't yield. Of order, the entire text is framed like it's an idiot rabbit in a folded sack. No guns or bunnies will cement this reform. There'll be no lasting peace, our land will remain as ugly as it is right now.
Of course I'm a promiscuous agent of change, I am so I can avoid all of this crap. I mean it's not really what I want to do here, not on days like today, She looks back and the cart's sitting lopsided on the shoulder of the hilltop road. The trees along the embankment are scorched from when fire was set to the sky, From father to son right?
Back to me then, so let's make me a vagabond and a shiny flower. But this time, Maybe I won't place my feet in the stirrups when they ask. Maybe that can be my magic power even. Tinker tom, tittle tit, Emke sings as the sun pours down, myself alone. Her dress is slick with grease and sweat. Some of it's from the undercarriage, some of it's from the fight. The little shit scratched me up like I was a fucking newsletter. Now I look like a cow that's been rolled under a bus for old chocolate. I'm grassy and wet, I get it. But when my ass is hanging out like this it's not really magical at all.
Cup your hands together, join them at their heels. Feel the warmth of them being filled in their pause. They're growing heavy with the make believe and fantasy that's backsliding into a magical sing song history feels like. This is the greasy lubricant of forgetting and boastful ignorance. This is Peter knock at the door for Grace. This is the overturned couch and the long drawers speckled with roaches and petty clothes. It's still early to be seated at the low dark table. The open book is as deep as ever. With a slight, a swish and a low huff the great dictator stoops and seats himself. Before him in the deep book captured inside brusque comic book quotations it says, A litter of spoons baffles the ears of their intent while a wealth of civical perfidy is pulled from their innards onto a more ripe path of puddlez, one chortle after another. One moment into the next it goes, laugh one , laugh two, laugh three.
The Dictator continues to read, Neoism wakes first and calmly. It rolls over and begins the procedures necessary to implement itself again. First there's coffee and fruit then 3 or four shots are fired off from the corner. A grey vehicle with a pinched look rides out east on 23rd towards the school and into the oncoming arms morning. The world is older than this. It's everything and nothing, it's in the DNA of our fucking lungs. If we can remember to wake up and breath then we might have a chance to figure out it's secret but until then the leather and the chrome will keep getting in our way.
Buzz Buzz, Emke whispers. Open up little sesame, open to me please. Someone must have blind in their pants to be pissing this much stupid from one asshole. Our universe is complex and it's a really unsettling place. It's not made for personal use at all. If there's to be any hope then people have to stop and amend their sense of organization, their methodical and consumptive practices of experiencing the environment and making it funnel through our guts first.
You're right Emke, God you're right. Person looks around the bar and sits down next her. The soft empty smells like something fish that gone a little dusty. It's like the Neoist's keep saying, this is a reality of class and it's a voracious example of consumption. Our resources are already viewed as supporting the whole culture bees, don't. Let's be honest, Let's be flowers please, please.
Emke recalls what Krieger told her before he got up, So just a jack quick word and then I'm off, In small and even batches the whiskey should always come home but the bigger the barrel then it's always the bigger the fucking barrel isn't it. To elaborate, that that means really is, it means that the future isn't a self organizing system for bears.
Krieger, don't get up now. It's the pause of the jam, everything's getting worked through the tube. All of that clutters got to go. We gotta keep pushing pushing pushing at it.
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