stagnanTVowels

fig.980) The Seaman's bell and the incense from the choirs nest are together. Foliated and compressed finally drawn from the water, from the weathers wet side. Bias is its own place, anchored to the sick sacks of blood we are. Open the line of this street down its middle, right between the lights. Then wait, the long night through. Whoa Oh a Whoa Aye... I'd love you twice as much tomorrow. Then the clasp at the other end breaks and mad as the moon over the moors, King Ovid-Pants agrees. While my fingers continue to fumble, the pendant slips its chain completely. Sliding down into the place between your breasts, King Ovid-Pants. Maybe it seeks a trove of amphetamines there or a place where Stan Brakhage might wait.  On the day, we're marching up and down the length of my room. The numbers we have are loudly shouted. It's as though all of it, the math of simple things and the quiet youth of its being built or consumed can stand for something. It's like they'...

fig.082) sploosh, this salient and inconsequential arc Don't you know, we're Dancing Dancing through the flames from our beards, Apostrophy, Parenthesis (in that old order); Mrs. Jamwell June, of Sunny Market Place, Deeply Hopless Records It started when the other farm's got a taste for herding some of our stray numbers. At first they poached a few of the prime numbers from the bottom of our board. But then the chalk began disappearing too. Soon enough, people all over this valley were leaving. Finally, there wasn’t any will left to use any of it and the whole thing evaporated. I remember the farm before its small math made it so big. Back then, it couldn’t fail because there were plenty of big numbers floating up to the top. There was never a need for Euler or their damn constant. That is until gamma arrived, suggesting that it was the same thing, only different. That’s when the farm broke. That’s when it started making all of us hungry too.  It's the worst tim...