The Meaning of Life
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Quite a dissident path indeed from the previously mentioned heretic's first tongue and grove into the new construction of a universe untold before by any prior advantageousness, only on that of my own first strengths and the previous forgotten memories of my abilities that were shunned before, only by my own worst enemy: myself: I digress into the point which is to pontificate further the reasons why this happened and gladly first I must admit it was scary, though we pulled through and she suggested to stay friendly and it was thus the last greatest known moment of juicy frothy squishy goodness that was remembered so fondly and longed for so greatly upon her return.
And this new perspective has light and a view too, so there are many windows and exactly sixteen franklins and forty quarters away from next month's greatest chase into the destiny only known as the renter's rights to regurgitate and spew out what we so begrudgingly say we earn in our dastardly ways and what not.
This day will begin to erode and so will everything, but to bask in it once a day ( or was it twice?). ANyhow, the point is to remember the past and never forget about the future.
Once again the life that has been lead by this radioactive irridium-laden troglodyte in theramorphinergic lysectomy - that is to say and induced stupor unbeknownst heretoforth without sayings and its methodical madness manifested hearsay, without a decibal meter or a smell-o-meter neither...
Tears of fear and repetitive flatulence, filial piety nothing further than the truth towards our mother's greatest intentions for a future of grandiose proprotions. Alas, The end is near and there dust is going to settle someday. My last greatest attempt for interactive connectivity in the third powers has left a prize buried in the dust and rubble of the maritime nightmare, again and again, they do it.he suggests it, and she suggests it too! again and again and again and again.
But three days notice has turned into an ill fait accompli of the slice of brain of the rat from physiological basement laboratories. Planning cities sounds so much more positive as it does the farce that planning in the first place is the yahoo's greatest poteniatilly dangerously disease ridden souls that make nothing other than the third degree possible in therapy. Other than the fact he's there and well, for now, she is too. This ruinous painful factulaistic fatality has credibly interlocuted serfdoms abroad, kingdoms, democracies, fascismo, social and particularly atheism, free love and communism.
So If she did decide to stay then it seems the end is nearly hearsay and feeling the bas rumble in the heartbeat is the sexualistic reminder of the fact that something in the distance that creates a pattern of sounds unlike our color perceptive cones and rods even when we're horny to ache another heartfelt bloody morning staining this or that and never even bothering to use protection any more for it's plasma-screen-gore-tex sub-text threads two days before the inner visions of sadness that radiate thoughts of insufficient subordinative terrifically seductive and juicily threateningly sullied and supple it comes over tomorrow morning for a workout of details and the next phase of a relativistic affair in transformation and pleasantries.
G'day, she suggested...?
Can you watch me rearrange his threateningly crass and terribly seductive shrimp into a relationship with my one and only last great chance at a barbie again and again and again and again?
Only when it comes out on DVD.
It was his perogative or her interogitory salutory nature of the stickiest and slipperiest of situations that create nothing other than when that guy kissed me and made me ignore the most insatiable of questions. Would I? she asked, and he asked and againa she asked..., actually, Well?
I Never did say that the crystalic depths charge into the night's first and last lesson into the nature of streets and alley ways. Blow the wad and see if it matters. Save it for what into the unforseeable future?
A new beginning is upon us, or is it already happening? The empirical nature of our perception says that there is nothing other than the first given mindful moment of interlocutory trust, confabulated with the dust, disgustingly envious of her wise choice to retort, and of course it made me cry... again and again. again and again.
Why I feel this was is unclear , only to say that there are so many possibilities that it could b caused by. And then again, in a casual retort that makes no sense whatsoever given the context, they always ask me if I'm serious, and I say yes!
It was therefore further, and rather coldly stated, that the last great emphasis is the create something out of the nothingness which we all experience. For boredom can seep into the cracks of every existentialist strife and stray chunks of MOOP of the soul that invades our daily thought patterns that boil within. As I looked on the chart, however, the MOOP pattern around my home camp was quite influenced by the distribution of debris from the blasted wind and DUST.
Forever it will be given an opporunity to come out and glisten in the false daylight of our lights within our collective unconsciousness.
And again we must ask why, why she did it, and why it makes me do this. Forever will be this question, as the colors collide and the paint intermingles, dancing around the color wheel, spinning like a hippy chick at a Dead show. Of course, the acid is now neutral and it wan't that strong to begin with, so the cerebral hydrochloric circumlocution that create the pigments of my vomit's perception, actually wind up on canvas and for that reason, it is called 'Art.'
Art is Life after all, and what more lifelike of a substance to make a first impression on society's gazing eyes wide shut on the half moon's starlight. Even if there's another big hoo-hah that night that everyone else is going to, the fact is you will be missing out on the the last great moments of the futures past.
When it was over the feelings were still there and in the shadows of the lines of dust sitting before me, painted in the desert floor with the bloody remnants of her menses from that night when it happened, unbeknownst to all in the house. So she became enamored with his beguileling trophy, the first removed therapeutic agent of my last greatest moisture-laden partner in crime.
My soul aches again and again with every ring and every unanswered message. Truly, it becomes clear that to have others say she said that you should stop, yet you can't make him stop trying to get into her if for only one last time to rub out the chafed memories of the broken stockings that created the pantslessness that brought on the end of the end of the juicy again and again and again and again.
The point is clearly again and again to not only shoot myself in the foot, but to do it again and again. Instead, to only sit here and feel the pain again and again and again and again. it hurts and I can't feel it anymore either.
That is to say the only time I really wanted to feel something I was rendered incapable of the adulations of my mindfulness and disaster, choking with the last chicken in nothingness, forever by myself with nothing to lose to gain everything without my fortunes of my last great entry in this worldly endeavour.
And she even said she was thinking of me or something like that, so conscious in fact that she had to do it publicly so that everyone knew about it and what I really wanted to do, yet I can't therefore be abashedly truthfully dysfunctionaly erect.
So in response to the first time that I have felt this type of bizarre pain, knowingly, so crass, yet semi-interrogatory, and deservedly so, I must throw up my arms and continue to struggle with hervoice. I shall not give up, for that is what she wants of me.
While the dopey Aussie guy smiled and said g'day, and the other cheezy lines that she fell for, she let him put his shrimp in her barbie, so truly sadly, though it could have been me, had I only smiled into the depths of her eyes because only I was the one who could not do so earlier.
I blame it on the Dust Storms.
By that Saturday Night, pantless, it was a separately focused internal journey into the arson of my last great soulmate. Right then, it also became obvious that there was nothing left to lose. He so brutally pounded her pink prettily perched perfunctorily in the Victorian setee at the window box, she gave up that precious box and let me know that she no longer gets wet when she sees me. In fact, i do absolutely nothing for her at all in that regard. And although I truly want to be at peace and there is a point where I could be okay with this all too. Multiplicities of these feelings are complicated, and still, I am not there yet. We are not there yet. In the end, what matters is that I just want to be the number one, and have her let me know that too. And vicev-ersa and likewise, I'm sure, er whatever.
Am I hearing voices? echoes of the past? why did she choose to make those decisions now instead of later?
Without nothing more to say i am drawn to the withdrawn warmth and the dry moistness longing for it's sweet return. Yet, she was cold as a fish, self-righteously self-smugly intertwined with my last serenade and thus she bade me farewell. The burnt tableau said it all, I think, she said.
The fact is, I'm well under way to become independently thoroughly without limitation in the world, for I can conquer anything and without the slightest bit of effort, only being myself with a few minor alterations,as is the normal modus operandi of my existence.
The third item was lastly placed begrudgingly without hesitation. And, alas, the art car is not ready, not will it be for many days an months, the playa must wait or this creation, for it will take lots of time. And, alas, I will have shelter from the wind and the dust and the heat and the sun.
Is it possible? Only with frequent flyer miles and a little bit of stubbornness combined with dumb luck.
For that, I must consult the third person's alter ego and consult with the goddess of The natural inter-agency pheromonicalogicalization controls. The scent of dissatisfaction does not only come without lieu-bricating or eau de toilette but also the thoroughly open-faced sandwich that was her pie of choice. At least last night anyway...
The and result is something resembling an ecstatically-charged sexually implicitly topless and then some without borders or angles on the best view from the camera. The visions that result are only to be perceived by the imagination's third eye lodged slightly to the left of center on your forehead.
However, the crude fact of the matter is that it was messy. So messy in fact, that it was only to be cleaned up by armor-all and bleach-ladened spray cleaner that i accidentally spread over the viscous surface of our year and more. It is thus how I became intuitively connected to its atomical origins within the space and time continuum.
For the first matter of discourse, it was determined that there was to be none other than the first maternal cousin thrice rmoved lengthwise and laterally within the clan of the big bear basin, atrocities of which were never revealed to the likes of the white man.
And so it became thus, eternally without meaning and nothing to make sens of it either, for once we said there is nothing to do and nothing to ask about so why even bother waking up to experience it?
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