Industry (Preston School of), locus of such dissatisfaction. Something to be approached gingerly, like an obsessive-compulsive might a rococo tureen.
Check the patella, strap it up tight; [x] imagine be running all night. Brave the picket fence again, one more time 'round to see if the little chain fits.
Letters ice up and form new ones or they freeze and shatter. This is Derrida’s message sent and not received or Derrida’s message never sent and always received. This is men and planets disconnected. This is the tongue held in check by canker sores.
I dreamt I made an illegal turn the other night. I locked the wheel and I turned and I turned and I wasn't timid any more.
Written on Sunday, 30 November 2014