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A phony stoicism, or is it road glimpsing its function, to go on and on and until then, you have to live with yourself
During the First War, the conversion of band instrument factories into warplants. The story of scarcity is the story of abundance on terror and can't, Or, how does the blur rub into a character and then a wreck and then on the shoulder of the road is the one verbal indication of where from (to):grow up, (where to show up from)
go ahead, damp your nature on the shore of your rage which is posing as a complacent clerk at the filling station, He sells us stale Cinnamon Trident so we remember how to trust industry again, and If I could pay loose coins to replicate you into interchangeable increments... I would compare the chewing gum to gunpowder then think of resin and then want the cello to overcrowd my mind with bend-then go dance on my stack till the fire went clapping, yellow of amber bling
Let's think of the old telethons. The lights in the main room are shut off so all one sees is the blinking coil of the calls when they come, indicating money and voices on wire A map of the business blinks just like this Glimmers of price versus worth until a village of brush fires lights the four men on the side of the road singing into their hi hats, accepting donations of gum and draft What matters, the men are black and you reach for a phone but your hand meets the tread of tire- tar in reverse acts like chalk and disappears in the slick Talk (with me) like this
