The circle completes around Mim, who's surfing across a bale of hay.

Hey, hey, what did it say? At just about the same time, a line of cars has somehow criss-crossed, and we're wearing them to the parade. [we'll make ya]

So maybe it's a fallacy, and maybe it's a truth, but it's definitely a statement, and that's all we need. Case dismissed, the victim is guilty, the innocent are dead, the media will explain everything.

Until the very last, desparate and unmistakably colored grayish, maybe with a little pluto thrown in, and wrapped around a wigless forearm. It's ugly as a dinner plate in this mud; I'm speaking, of course, of my NEW PHOIBLE. It's a nice concoction but nobody's going to fall for it. It's over for me. I'm found out a bright, shiny pot of grubs. The kind that smell like old milk.

The cross I'm making for Seth is gynormous! I felt a needle, astride my leftmost capilary (which are not always pointing outwards, like a star,) but I fear it's over now. *from the dark I stab at thee!* And when I came tumbling out, I was covered with a fluffy, sticky substance, and electricity engyrated my trembling pillowness in its own, clammy hand. Stumble, clutter, crawl. Stumble, grasp, spit. Sputter. Sputter. Spit.

Glue. Stick. Stumble. Butter. Fit.
Gummer. Lover. Spit

Runner. Over. Split. Hummer. Glummer. Tit. Bundle. Huddle. Sprint. Hunger. Anger. Spite. Longer. Harder. Bite. Slower. Softer. Bit.

Unfortune has left all softly and grooming in my upkeep, spaketh. We hollow out dinner, trays, it feels lovely but please take it off. Please take it off. Now. Take it.

What a load of. The lime deteriorates what's left of a dying body. Hope this helps. marshmallow. lucky charm. fuck.

Slowly, softly, scarcely noticeably, peacefully, graciously, considerately, elegantly, the small hard fart makes its exit from my bri-nylon super slacks, and glides effortlessly over the surface of my plastic chair until it reaches the perimeter, whereupon it floats down to the dusty floor like a stone in an ocean. Its density greater than the atmospheric air which I breath, its hue; one of lurid green, its composition poised tantalisingly betwixt the gaseous and the liquid, its scent, like a concentrate of some dubious pleasure.
My creme puff collapses then, and the fondue is struck once more from the menu du jour.

Dandelion P, Wildingfrowser,
Galliard & Gee
Advisors to the realm

Current rules dictate that I not disclose the following information.

And I quote:

""

Hey, I live close to this guy. Should I go throw crackers at his house? I bet he'd like having crackers thrown at his house.

RISE UP! CRACKERS! FUCK YEAH!

Red unwelded and drawn out, pale fish flutter by. It's all he can do to grab onto the steam rolling up out of the con...

No, that's not going to do. All he could do was stuff his pants full of the drawings he'd made while hiding in the closet, waiting for the cleaning people to leave the office. It had taken longer than usual this time, though he wasn't sure why. With the door closed he couldn't figure out exactly what they'd been doing, but it had involved moving the conference table around (it was the only thing heavy enough to have made so much noise) and then there was some vocalizing of some kind. Perhaps some sort of therapy.

Now he had all of these drawings on little scraps of paper he'd found in a box in the closet. Why there were little scraps of paper in a box in the closet - a separate issue. We can get to that. What I knew at the time was that he couldn't leave the drawings behind

Ahhhh, I see. I said, as I realised the upper window could be filled with strange codeified characters designed to convery meaning to others of my kin and kilter. " So THIS is how to have a hank of henna"

With that, I slowly died, happy.

Yet sad. And then I pressed the 'Post' button, but not before noticing that my intynet connection had gone down again, like a drug crazed whore in a room full of disenfranchised hard ons.

One button says "Post", and the other; "post AND publish" Well I'll be!

I'll try "Post" first, and save the fun for later.

( I note with some concern, that my preceding line but one has been underlined by a strange force of Kin and Kinko)

And their crown would come down, on top of a head. Like sausages, cold and onion, well into the next expected time period. The least it could do is become not gold, but some other sort of a surface, akin to dishwater, splotchy.

Then teams of scientists would stand on first base and shout, "Out! He was out!!! He was fucking out!!" And plastic-helmetted men with brawny bellies would storm out of a concrete bunker to beat the teams of scientists about the ears, eyes, and last week's tomatoes with their wooden and/or aluminum fish.

You would be pasted this way in a heartbeat, beneath the scraping jelly.

They wore stilts and paraded around the parking lot. There were at least 8 of them, all up high, denting fenders and punching holes through hoods. Shattered safety glass, on vinyl seats and out on blacktop, glittering back the cold blue of the winter. They all had smiles, or each one smiled as they caught my attention.

There were no sirens, there was no one doing anything. They just kept circling around, expanding the sphere of damage to encompass more and more of the vehicles. A man ran out from the building, "hey, that's my car," his leg snapped somewhere near the kneecap as a stilt came down, the stilter still smiling, the man who had become now the stiltee screaming and writhing.

It's December but the glass isn't snow.

There were flags waving around, perched on plastic poles coming up out of their backs. None of the flags were the same, none of them recognizable. They left then, as a few people crowded around the injured man. Some vehicles were left undamaged. They marched in a haphazard line out onto the freeway, down the shoulder and out of sight.

I will squeak every last nuance out of that .035. That is not a blood alchohol level.

Spooky, this is for you. If I can get this figured out, maybe you'll want to use this as a... a... propped up stamp. But I wouldn't presume to presume.

Transmission to follow. It's a lot different chromatically where you are right now, so I fear this may become garbled beyond all recognition.