stagnanTVowels

our bag of sad from the pew pew seats Let's bow our heads together. Let's pretend that abstraction is a flavor that we can call sweet, that motion is blue and that the ethereal quality of art is kind of like a toast. If we can imagine these things being, then yes we can also imagine someone bringing into the business of our experience the beingness of these things. So let's now think about programming all the work that's not been adjusted for the science of social practice. I personally like the title, U through S plus all of the vowels: a sad reminder that failure occupies space if nothing else can. Let's think about the artists hand and its lingering presence in the strata of castaway thoughts pursuant to broken desires, time, and the weight of pride. These aren't masterpieces but they are the things that you will hang in a room. They will stay put until the union breaks and the circle becomes undun. Let's think about the kind of party that we'l...

apples peaches baby At least the bed still works Emke, I yell to her from upstairs. The PennSprings mattress compresses with a weak willed screech under me, I think it'll hold us if you want to drag it along behind you. You'll be like some mordant of ghostless sex, guile, guile I tells yah. So our Picaro continues to get by on his wits alone. Basically he's just a rotten mother fucker; a false construct prepossessed with an innately untruthful manner. While his story might be told in a plain spoken or really real quality it's his satire that's such an important element to the narrative. It's important to know that his behavior will always stop just short of criminality. That our picaro's carefree rascality will position him as sympathetic and untouched by any rules or false modesty. There's very little if any actual development inside this fucker; all of it's gone if it was ever there at all. The house stinks. Iss like the bad eggs and the ...