Fair thee cricket, a snippet, a snatch, a wee bit of the blundering bubbles that might consecrate your malignant spectacle and sit sinister upon the porch of thine own meandering. Fine lines are drawn, in sand, in stone, in paint, in plastic, and strings are attached here to yon and back again, such that we might stand, astute, acquiescent, amidst a flowing see of such strands as these, up and down, side to side, and we might believe these threads could take us perhaps where we oft want to go. Watch the spittle run mildly down the ledges, where the connections were made and forgotten long ago, left adrift in a flowing pasture of never dried velvet, where clandestine wanderers could sell air to fish for a hundred percent profit.
The agents have mostly fallen, lost on the road to Lanyap or Dillstone, imprisoned by Husklobbers or spat upon and made to give up by blind fools with their onions. Reports have become so scarce that I've very little idea what's actually going on out there. The loss is tangible, squeezing the supplies so that I can only grope, a caterpillar at the end of a twig that is being twisted in the hand of some giant, who, amused but bored, watches half-heartedly as I ripple. I have nothing to grasp, and the lights are not in a spectrum useful to my eyes. What hath Cob embroiled upon our doctrine? What is the corpuscle?
THE MAD MEN OF MAYBURY MAY MYOPICALLY MISINTERPRET THE MISSILE.
Thus is written, though I can't read anything with my lenses all scratched up like this. I remember. I remember. Something of a fluxus contends:
Seeds of lead or clay:
__ Highlight and light and lay away sleep.
__ This is not a crook.
__ But ever the greatest of sponge.
__ Butter is better with biscuits.
__ Threepenny, threepenny, half wager jar.
They don't come raining down like they used to. The cellophane wrapping is losing hold, and the tape is barely sticky. Light a candle from afar, the flies might see and come back, come back, come back. Where from afar we drifted into shining hate. Where from afar we drifted upon drying beds. Where from afar. Hate.
Does the toxic citrus spill into the carpet, marking forever the passage of time? Alas, we're all poked full of holes.
Acradled in Loosening Confidence,