Ecclesiastes (once entropy has cried herself to sleep)

Talking again at an empty shelf, to some small profits that have gathered there.

"Wait I'm a curator of all of the cultural artifacts too. Wait for me please," The mild force of this otherwise diffused exchange waves and waves. Micromanaging the disorganized panderers is what the hands-on seats at the front of this bus look like. That's where the do it yourself crowd like to sit when they hop onboard.
"The next stop, Get-Things-Donesville," So with their jaunty caps and garish capes hanging just so. They gather in the seats behind the driver like real super heroes. It's like they're signing the Declaration of Independence over and over again.
"We're going to the apple farm for the whole day today. The high branches and the sweet smell of failure is so distant from here and there's going to be a special teacher for everyone of us. They'll say that I'm so special. I'm a little Special Pigeon, they'll tell me. Or they might whisper, You're a ray of sunshine in the vast space of ubiquity. Some may suggest, let's pull some of that low fruit down from those deeply pregnant limbs. Or cheer by way of our flattery, Jump up, yes jump up little darling. But they'll never admonish me when then can encourage instead. When they can say, Look at my little Curator go, I've got you. It's going to be alright parasite."

This is plain enough a game of acumen, diluted as it is in this lofty space again. Especially where the region of it's boundaries have remained so apparent. Still letting this work hang here like this is a reeling temptation for me. It hints at the dopeness of our wack bodies unfolding as they are from coital delirium or at the per chance happenings of frozen spastics, harried by the busy bee that's singing, There's a great big pile of piled up people going down to their downtown jobs and all those bunnies and those Mr. Turtles are team teeming with the mob mob mob There's the windup people in the cheap seats looking at the piles of people in the green streets singing riot to the mob mob mob. Singing, klick klick klack Jack, give it back Jack. We don't want your bloody war. If you're here for survival and you came in through the backdoor shaking. Than bomb it, pink bomb, left bomb, or itty-bomb bomb it. This elevator's gonna stop soon when it all goes bursting soon. So itty-bitty bomb it. Put a little hot sauce on it. Don't think about it...