Tuesday, March 07, 2006

muddy meditation

armed with hogwashed spielings, sweating more that they're worth, the old wan decrepits creak away in wandered waywarding, pallid, limp, almost moist and soon forgotten, pale and bluer than any moon or monstrosity could have driven them.

the room, debased, unsignatured, is crawling with antennas, aardvarkian presuppositions, and advanced foot decay: disintegration one step at a time, the vanishing tread of invisible footsteps.

this is why the MSM is dead, dying, and moving toward death.

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