as if downright nevertheless, in a tumbleweed scenario forgetting whom to benefit, and as if it was in those pages in those sullen despair of dictation fortnights subtle countermeasures not in such an open scenery - look don't look there might not be someone there to reproach you, and you might simmer starlings for the weight of your inanimate bloodshed, and intimidating maggots, though not of madness shed and not of simplemindedness ordered around to the tablecloth and its ultimate corner in the serrated latitudes,
none there to supervise, mortuary gamewise sampled, teaspoon of solicitude, dropped into this marble as if by coarse-ground sector schematics, I had never alotted fairways this scrambled crayfish and laughter housewise, forcefully reproaching the guidelines and crumbling the sacks of necessities hidden in a candlestick,
not knowing how thereby the life of scallops and their shallow tendrils approach the intimacy of gathered nestlings,
not at all, not a single bloodshed to this fortunate essay of lost moments and cough syrup,
had we only been fastened by this atrocity or another and seen or not seen voracity take another direction in history-
(in the comprehensive program of automatism exercises, somebody had suggested writing an automatic text drunk.)
(Byssus threads which might illustrate the "tendrils of scallops")
Indeed, this is the unfortunate text I was writing-posting while not checking my messages thereby delaying getting the news that my friend hat been hit by a bus and gone to the hospital. Without any ingredients concrete enough to give rise to any particular suggestions of clairvoyance, it still provides a particularly sinister depth to the reading: "shattering" "tumbleweed" "sullen" "look don't look" "your inanimate bloodshed" etc etc.
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