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That biological fetus

fig.245) Barely thirds, figures behind the secret of all things at once (x2)

"Goodbye," says the wet man. "This womb is mighty big. It's been a singular sack indeed." These are not the times of us so much as the place where the clockwork fails. The house is a'clatter in shifting gears and torn fabric. All of the tools of modernism have finally blinked and so goes the glass.
Gender is a lean and wary host, it's a comfortable friend, and the scary story on this broken bus out of town. It's a biologic frame with long social tendrils that delicately obscure the face of the hosted. We are blind, the sun has made us up. We are guilt with chance and dumb fingers too. The bath of my moment in the day of my job. It's around the corner, Hi-Ho! O' Ho, the superlative mange. Trust is any blanket that puts out all the flame.
Blue house with an orange dot behind the shrubs, it's a calculated risk. There's an Arthur C. Clarke novel in my back pocket. It's thin and sweaty. The pages are well dogged and they're very stained. I've been raking these leaves in the sun for hours and man, do I feel ripped inside. I've got abs on my abs as the cars roll on by, "That's right baby drink that cola hard."
"There's a playlist, it's all David Lee Roth and Rush. The perfect blend of Karma and Us and Them that will take it all away. I know you like that stuff by Air Supply but you're killing me. This isn't a damn submarine race. You have to fall into it. The whole thing is sweet as shit."
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