Medicated Indy 500

In the fold tenfold since that drug fell out of the mold, you know the one. Raging buoyancy to hit every bend in the blood river, open forum to discuss the joined decorum deepening the chasm. Living in a head, half imaginative ass-kicker, never unarmed, half gore-demanding throwback phantasm. Handsome sum for the scars testing my lucidity, an infinity a stake with a measly 102,317 large lexicon in a humble-braggadocios estimation. Drawn to a level of certainty bequeathed at gunpoint or however you spell semantics. Fool God of antics. Frantic over everything, Spice Rack is a knife collection.

Take a seat, introspective dismissed to a beat, and retreat customary Jack Rabbit (lovely to meet you all) antler remover, peyotes with the coyotes, too pathetic to see the symbolism. Do I want to know how little behind the door really matters in these Absurd divorce proceedings, keeping me from blinking? No one knows what I’m saying, and the name change to slim pickings is confirmed; it takes effect when the bullet hears the starter's pistol. It’s explained but never enough, never enough to reverse engineer to factory specks betting—you know what I mean, life lean, should I embrace the fiend the kill myself in prison. (what am I thinking about?) Everything is nothing as I frolic amongst the dandelions with my puppy. Everything is nothing—die, You SHIT—you know you should pick that window there—that on there. (only a dab will do you.)

Life of incomplete lines, cheap wine before the Universal Coastline Theater. Leather, if you squint, trade paint with the realtor. Flaxen layered guidance, the rest, all defiance refusing to accept my enemy’s invitation, what hurts more? Everything is nothing, when the people arrive, I’ll let you know. Everything is nothing, and I can’t stop saying it. Words pour without order. Kakai stupid in wrapped surplus of a. (A surplus of stupid wrapped in Kakais.) Granted, the ache is the main form, but I’d call it fifty-fifty. Everything is nothing, autobiography title one thru 86-ed. Weasel in the gated community, dry slithering through the Kentucky Blue Grass to the beat, says my Astral sign. No death, no life, so what symbols?

“Technology, focus on the other shit,” Wish to see a different view when some stark review forgets its fucking iron suits. Hot pursuit of a thought that fits the Job interview, everyone gets it; how am I missing my twelfth final clue; who does one talk to when the wall’s answers get a little stale? Black pupils, iris, and eyebrows to cope with The One with the Red Locks. An infrared’s worth if she’s telling the truth. Strand by strand by strand, somehow, the only highlighted portions next to their stolen guns. Funny sort of psychosis (works even when it’s the switch is in the off position) asking for a glass of water in a moment of my time. Can rob three banks at once but fails to mention that the lifetime transference rate is one moment, which equals my Mesozoic period; Everything is nothing. Celebrating the job offer will have to do the fog of where I am, who am I—whose office is this? I’m qualified but not qualified, yet at least qualified. “Thanks for the opportunity—nice to meet you.”

“You’re up—wait, are you—What spooked him?”

“No idea. We only just started. Maybe he had an emergency.”