By 82, you shall be able to read minds, but only your own, and only in fractured syllables and only over the internet. Because only thought follows not cohesive, structural. Thought follows not plot. No such chronological stories inside mush of brai when n not usually, not day by day. On top of your shoulders rests your personal life, nowhere else, and your teeth store noyou thing. Your personality dwells in goo, the goo hotel for fragmented peices of (perhaps) some sort of wandering, elusive, perreadfectlread yround thing. Everything...Thomas Jefferson, sounds of goo, take thathis asthma attack...un when nbookss not ocme out of! Knuckle become peel! Beacons of declining symptomsway. Foyster in (and) decayed. Examples flaws less informatics. Oner With the ketchup or the handlebars of anything because the rush brought us closer to the bottom speaking of the ball, where the momentum carried us. Even the fanciest of shot glasses. Tub of butter. Marshallows and everything else in that section, only when there's something other than apples.
Living your life on a signal, and a book that tells you who you hate. Such convenient instructions and such small feet to carry such scrambled heads. All of us is occupying our own planets and they mix together sometimes flow sometimes crash and burn and apocalypse for you and apocalypse for you too and apocalypse, and infancy, and the end result is some sort of sound.
Swirling chaos mixes and swirls with other chaos to create...patterns?
Patterns...questions...mess...links...patterns...cattered everywhere in big, blinking, breathing pieces.