Staked. Outcome. Delirious.

I had an ounce of pain that I gave to a girl in Ohio. Back in the day. Do you remember? Do you remember remembering? The children? With their knives?

Missed the award show.

My eyes hurt from the time the spaceship came and you made transmissions from the tower. And then the cops came and you abducted them.

Pain.

No such luck.

No depression, just exhaustion.

He is ill. You should teach him a few tricks. Or how to sleep. Or how to repeat. To repeat. To repeat.

Records stuck.

Kobe?

Are you out there? I bootlegged your record and built a shrine after I made fun of a guy with the most insane phobia.

Take out the short one and replace him with his older Mexican brother.

Does it bother you when I say Mexican? Blink twice if it does. I'll bring the drops. And some tools to fix the holes in your stereotypes.

None of this is consistent. Would you like a graph. A telegram. A transmission. Too tired to care?

Label nothing.

It's what they want.

Have you seen that ounce of pain I lost?

Entreaty.

Morphing. Morphing. Moping? Please, tell. Guilty? Senses failing. Must pass out. Run it. Run it you Nazi!

heueueuagghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh

Repetition killed all of the deer. Or was it the shotgun? I can't remember. It's starting to bother me, but I can't focus enough to stop laughing. Data

Stratum.

Quit flaking out.

quit.

He will be mad.

When he finds out that you have been using his mind to blog. Do you know if he is sleeping yet? Check his pills. Then check his pulse. He has talked about numbering himself in the past. I am not quite sure how it works, but it has to do with the rotations of the planets--and a complicated equation that he keeps in his blazer pocket. He began working on it in high school after he changed the names of many of the people around him to facilitate the dissemination of random blueprints he created to win the hearts and minds of the good people of Laos.

He picked the city because he likes the sound of one hand clapping.

Shuffle nothing. There is no poet.


A rehearsal would be nice. Consider it. Label it.

Fight the beast and then lay his remains at the foot of the drunken temple.