I want to tell it as honestly as I can. They were all masks. The indecipherable cartoons. The levitation. Phrases plucked from a radio in an abandoned car. Trying to appear simple to hide a different simplicity. New Ugaritic hymns on vintage clay. It all fed some demon that fed me unfortunate moods. Quasimodo as Beckett playing Don Quixote with a shard of glass in his or just K. Kat singing to the mittens the moment before the impact of love gee aren’t images grand?
Though immobilized by what those thoughts might and whether they could be liked loved subscribed to at midnight this pen becomes a pin when the free preview expires but I have groundhog burrows to inspect and potatoes to prepare, which brings me back to, and by which I hope to prove, once and for almost all, in the fullness of, and we’ll see how it goes. But soon the orange smear of our star glittering just slow enough out of this restless salt and then
other animals 