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Let US/ We can funk you up

fig 98.) We'll get there still

O' no I'm not alone nor lost at all My head's not stuffed nor filled from density My eye's aren't split to open No their seams are whole and dry I like to sing Let's sing again Around around the circle From now to when let's sing again Around around and then 
- Right around to Wrong, Miles Sharplie 
"Ham," She gives him a rolling push before turning and walking away. It's brave enough to know just enough of what we do. Now there's also the additional effort necessary to produce any program or event at all. Then it all needs to be determined, to be considered before it is too. Rather than a worthwhile exhibition these things, any valuable or historical paradigm remains irrelevant until any and all things that substantiate them can be assessed. Then there's the curious removal of symmetry from any of our specific inquiries. "It's all becoming brief as any witness will say," I tell her over my shoulder from here inside the dark bathroom of my soul.
"So I'm pretty certain we still have a dozen eggs in the fridge," She answers me from the stairs. She's pulling her cotton shirt up over her head and pauses on the rug. "They'll be fine for breakfast. But boiled eggs the next few days, too much maybe? We'll probably want bread later on too." She hangs her arm out like a relaxed tree broken in a dancing yard, green and breezy from my mirror. "I have 5 meals this week. That might be too small, but let's have a look together?"
"Breakfast mustn't cry." Kiss kiss...
"It's why we still have theories, you know."
"You and I," I wink and cut my cheek. "Gah, tender! Moving Ahead, was probably excellent. It's too bad we didn't stay."
"I was with you the whole way. I mean sure we could have but why would we, Right?"
"Time travel with bee's and lot's and lot's of snow globes. Wait, wait, waiting," I apply some toilet tissue to my cheek. The pink and white blotch is like a dot with a slippery red tail letting down towards my collar bone. I watch as the mellow thing of it stretches into a comic vector for a slippery red stick ball, pong style. "Time travel is curious. I like the potential of exploring our one sided relationship with time."
"Events," She yells up from the landing. I daub the spreading knob of blood with a warm face cloth. The porcelain sink doesn't care, not really.
"I could bleed out."
She yells, "Events with gore, maybe some boar tusks hanging from monofilament." I laugh at her joke. When we met there were boar tusks. We were waiting, at least she said she was and I agreed. "It's what I do," She handed me her drink and walked off. The windows were open and the walls were done.
Finally after being closed for years the project was done. The walls were originally a concoction of slow plaster and narrow lathe slapped down across charred studs. All of this was replaced with quick walls of gypsum laid over fresh new metal supports. Every sixteen inches or so the wall bowed slightly to remind us of what was behind it.
The new walls are covered in posters thousands of them have been stapled up, or glued and then taped to it's fresh surface. Then painstakingly they were ripped down and rehung all over again. The pieces got smaller and more mottled the whole image of it got more dense and even more aware of itself as each new facet was revealed, layer after layer.
When she came back for her drink she asked if I'd been busy?
I told her, "No." She seemed satisfied with that.
"Time travel's like that."

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