Miles and Miles of Black beside White
|fig.6) like penguins, fresh for god|
Singing, funtime with the pizza-clowns in their bright warm hats. Singing, fun funtime with the pleats of fun and a moist towelette
O'See Vanilla Jean, toil toil toil. Birds in the vacuum won't shut up, keep squawking about guns and therapeutic stones. Can't sleep with the vacuum on no more. Or maybe I'm to clever. Sift softly, the humble beginnings of science's toil, they say. Like this is the stifling ring of equivalency from the mechanism of culture and it's boisterous metric. This flower, that flower and over there, that one too. They're not so hard to reach for. They're still fresh and young, well kept in the sponge of this dirt. Time is only well spent when it's being eaten from one or the other of its soft ends. The birds know this. They know that laundry is a plaything, lunch is their only friend. Salt is a gift from giveaway eyes. It's what's wrapped up inside of the drip drops that are drip dripping all of the time.