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fig. 087) est tempus fugit

Fraxinus is a good hard wood at market but its leaves are wild. The ash almost always turns early in the autumn, surging bright and hot into the shorter cooler nights of fall. But the magic in them is gone. Instead, they're drunk on the juice of the summer's lilies and ferns that are scattered everywhere by the squirrels and the breast heavy log nymphs. Many of the trees are slack and thin with hangover and the house sits behind the wreck of their wobble drunk. Peeking through, it's tossed eves bang away in the long winds off the lake. The garage is poor in both it's purpose and execution but the less I say of this, the better.
There's rotting wood that's ratty with bird shit and worm stuff. It's busy descending into the grass out front. The doors are gone and all of the windows are broke. The smaller rocks, the good throwing stones are inside with ache of the mildew that's spreading over the high birch paint along the withering walls. "You should come with me," Nancy steps out of the stairwell as I walk in through the back. "But be careful not to break those, the almost dry parts are the most fragile."
I love this song, "Who's the fat sack of almost limp dicks, blue eyed funny little bunny knows. Underneath the diplomat hat on the fat of his head, he's running for the money little bunny. The suit that he's wearing matches the sign that you're carrying, love love me do. The hand that he's holding is the one that's as wet as it's golden. It's shaped like a hand that's gonna squish you."
Soft as a robot, there's a tiny amplifier by the door. It's leaking more AM signals out into the living room upstairs and then on into space. The workshop is damp, it's like heavy laundry left sitting on basement concrete. There are metal cabinets and tables everywhere you turn. Tall angular stools lean into the heavy pink light. Most of the tools have been broken. Many of their little motors got crusty and brown from grinding too much shellac into dust and lead into slick hot lumps, so now they've all  stopped. Now they sit in tangles with the remainders of greasy and flightless birds that were taxidermied by a drunken hand.
"It wasn't supposed to start yet," that's right, a simple gag for some laughs. "A place to float and yawn. A place that's like a quiet night in May."
"Uuhh... Curators? Artists? I can't stand thinking about it anymore."
"Nope, just the fundraising team here. There wasn't a Jacket, white or otherwise among them, O' the irony that sings least is rarely less."
"Let me guess, they were trying to help. The UmperKunst love helping themselves."
"Yeah, they'll rattle you with those beer shits, won't it?"

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