Saturday, June 26, 2010

To be culled:

Cerebral slits. I saw. This is it. It is this. Imminence. As long as. Once when there weren’t flies focal points foliated. Once wasn’t enough. Wherever you are you aren’t there. Skies are skivvy. Blood-stained skiffs appear rusty. How much for those ones. Tropical fat falls flat on the apex of a hill like a nipple during arousal. Heats and fealty fragments a tale the color of the tumor which may in the future kill me. No cancer puns please as they’re in bad taste. Taste my indefinite article then take it away and call your own. At the center of a circumference—a zero—the temperature veered from very hot to freezing such that were one to see the changes on a screen the lines would resemble a polygraph. Nothing goes round and round in a slightly skewed circle. Puns are puny compared to playfully making no joke.

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