24 Visits to the Nail Salon
The Inquisition resembles framed debate, with flowers
transmuted into toads. Toads are all right, fictions with
tongues. But we must remain cognizant that climate
change and claptrap produce farms. Why is the big
unknown.
Benches of grey strokes produce futile farms. Fluency
exercises create our future. We aren't tractors, we are
men and women, perhaps a few lorn children, okay some
dogs, cats, a dolphin or two, some wax figurines, a bit of
lint, the point is, we create meaning just by standing by
as time passes and then passes again.
This is the signal moment, complete with commas. Semi-
colons mark the moment when something included could
be left out, straightway to the center of backing away.
That's why we bully children.
When not bullying children or implying immigrants or
examining our inner lint, we have the scrumptious duty
to appear focal. The farm must feed the billion openings
that may say Yes to the right No. It's a program or
problem, whatever.
Meaning
produces candlestick
wainscoting in a brilliant
littoral waistcoat. Wow means
faddish brilliance, same as
children. Our best pants tell us everything.
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