No bowl from charm (code for smoking pot)



There are major goings on right inside the school's front office. This is where the neat desks are arranged into right angles. Prim and trim in front of the neat white secretaries with their tidy assistant pins pinned to their sharp lapels.
"O' can I get a picture please?"
Type type type, "Of course, yes."
The slow arc of light being thrust at the dusty screen aches like a spreading bruise. It's a hot knot shaped like a hound, a small fat hunting dog on a wide rug beside a glowing fire and an oversize bouncy chair. The long table has a dozen sleepy students sitting at it. They fidget with their pens and gaze at the dim clock overhead. The radiator bangs and a couple of the girls chins bounce when they nod. "We've taken advantage of the this rule before. Last week we saw it with Hawthorn. We're likely to see it again in Updike. Can anyone identify the rule I'm talking about here?"

No one moves beneath the steady weight of the dark room. "There's only cause for more time young ones and there's never too much memory," he turns his page again.

"You can always submit to the advantages of writing only junk, it doesn't have to fit together," he tells them. "Junk can stay as open and plastic as the myriad trajectories of it's readers intentions. Truth is only experienced. It has no witnesses, not a one. Junk writing won't succumb to any subjective order as there's no known destination for it, there's no reason to it. There is no end to justify. Instead, it is effortless and it grinds not."

"It's like all of the gold that's getting piled into the hole that's filled with the muddy boots and the curious fingers under the sharks by the volcano," he adds.

Chapter Again.
These are the crazy words of drunken seniors. Seniors all alone in the sex starved night. VanHalen spills out of their little car joining the large white noise of the tide. "The valiant pages of my suffering loyalties are not lost beside the lapse of this monster's pink. Instead, call me Moon. For I am not fish and my tide is the blood of his wound."

The whale of the beach is the dead whale of this beach. The car curls around it in the sand with it's lights on. The monster barrels of its 4 cylinder engine laugh and laugh like drunken teenagers getting high beside a dead whale. "I am not QueeQueg, no harpoon for my mate have I."

"There are no baggage handlers in pasty coats here. They will not leave their mottled and sullen shack. Apples and ducks for the reach of the geese, this is all that they have. Apples, fuck-ups and more apples and a further reach for the geese all rolling in leaves. We're dark and we stink from dancing in this shit."

"But we're not alone have I? No we're not alone for this world."

The car's white exhaust is thin, it reeks of diesel even here on the slippery edge of the ocean. The dead whale mumbles. It will settle some more before decomposing tickles the gases inside of it to explode. "It has 4 or 5 stomachs, I think," Thom's a quick study. "It's got really gummy gums and ribs like a steel trap. My god, I'd get up if I could."
Terrance, formerly Queegueg takes the dugout back. He slides the small brass pipe into its wooden housing and slips the unit into his jacket pocket again. The varsity letter on his chest is for swimming, no one gives a damn.

The End (finito).

"I'm uncomfortable and nervous. I'm every sailors dream. The ship I've lost, the birds on pier. I think it's time. It's time to get back home again darling." So I say, "Here's to feeling squalid, draped in a naked and homeless myth. It's like being rundown from sleep. All of my crunchy and lidless eyeballs skip around as my foul tum tum turns. Sauerbraten, like a German pot roast prepared from many meats, I'm like this too. I'm like a country with very many attractive doors. Behind most of these are something like battered slipcovers, hobbled ponies, or unhappy crayons that are all left behind inside shallow holes marked with popsicle sticks. The gross of their purpose is lost in a franchise of franchises that does not pay."
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