It was a day like any other day since the day that we flew over the barren steppe of yesterday like some morning fog of amphetamines and hangnails on a dead stripper’s body floating in the river of dreams somewhere of the coast of this side of forgotten. I can’t say that what we had was anything more than what it could have been save for the mountain slides that soothed our sorry souls and gave us that regrettable cherry bomb aftertaste. I wish it were more too, sweet heart but as things were and are we can only be assured that the problems with each of our microcompressors imbedded deep inside our selective and slippery slopes of cinder and cyanide will come to rest upon the kindest of kings in that mournful cry in pink hollow verse. I gave the followers away that day.
The next step was of course to recover the missing zylon that you know what and where complained about in the pictures of the following newspapers:
The Daily Correction
The New and Improved York Times
The Inspection Continues
So, naturally I began my studies in the long and seemingly impossibly lit container of feeling and foulship. I found myself whistled without much to do with the whistle and I was as one can be in such a time stunned beyond reckoning the coming times that would pass over us and absorb our blankets of thoughts and smokes. It was more than a cloud; it was something like that which I could only exacerbate the meaning of once I concluded that the zylon was indeed somewhere whence the Stone Age could not have accurately predicted even if it were to be somewhat elemental to that fact. To go on with is indeed to further subjuncticate ourselves to more and more of the code in which we are all desperately wanting to know how and when such a thing could have been so horribly solidified under that kind of microscope. It boggles the compassion of nearly everyone I have thought about skipping down some long forgotten memory lane in my latest version of mental pornography. If you catch the gift of what I am saying here, it wasn’t like the teenage dreams we had as children but those of ours that we kept long after the books were due on the pain of pelting papa and had subsided to some rudimentary game of silence and long counting until someone somewhere, probably in a closet of our least expected surprise of the spaghetti evening, came crashing down around the bed of wickedness and forgiveness. Much like how I imagine she was when she first read those papers over the grinding noise of what I can only say must be a classic forgery of metallic flavoring in the sweet, no bitter, wine of morning which of course has better names to be captured upon the written walls of historic falling. I do so agree.
To count off where we went to later is really best to play with the flux nature of childhood secret planning sessions. You know those ones where the flame of Barcodes were still implying the meaning of golden gates and dragoons swooping down around cotton fields or corn fields, which ever more applies than what could have been the nightmarish stick figure manuscript of Sancho in what I call now our hour. In so being that is, I say that we go on without stopping to stop and getting what was over the yonder hills because it is too late for such tomfoolery and as it was I remain wishful of such strategy to complete me in the finality of what the last King said could be the trumpeting of the quintessential newscast in the quintessential flash of criticism in light of the missing zyon. It plagues us and will so, my friend we be off?
The closing of Carracus didn’t disenfranchise many a player upon the wick of flights burning fancy but did place he whom has not the world’s wicked place upon the wood that is and was carried back and forth to the gallows. Like all days gone and some not yet there we shall see such magnificent people again. Do not cinch your belts too soon my love. I have such action as it may require you once more.
So with that I leave you with completeness of my vernacular and without questioning of motives. Once the zyon is found I fear that all else will be forgotten and misplaced once again in some wheelbarrow, a red one perhaps, and what then will nature say to this but “Oh my.” Once again I can’t even imagine the daylight without something of a clouded man carrying or walking with a dog now can we? So say, stay, by the sea shore and never worry about seeing what you do not have if can only be wings to what was otherwise a dead cancer but now sprung lose in your heart. Mark me, dear friend, mark me and stay it well within the ears of treasure keepers however you may find them in your past filled past. It will be the case.