The street was mounded by buildings generating heat and power for the nearby university and they remained in a constant fog from the endless release of steam, warm air cooling into visibility as it drifted down to the street. The bearer of 9,999 diseases corrupt porkchop eating brains, the hard ironic kind you drop quarters down the sewer when you want to call the head of the U.S. Institute for Drug Abuse who happens to be Leon Trotsky's granddaughter. She's the remarkable one, the descendent of a man who took an ice-axe, not an ice-pick as it gets misquoted all the time at parties where you hear Yngwie Malmstein playing Pachabel with a lot of bass. Institute is a flat word, and her job doesn't seem like it's all that interesting, but it's probably a much maligned post. Take a moment to think about it, lsd research, chemical studies, vision quests disguised as rigor, methodology taking a run at the upper limits of consciousness where science, magic, and the greater shining spheres are all glowing as the suns that warm creation.
It's there that we become anything. The thing I have become plays fur and animations across the surface of its face regarded books stacked on a mantle, one day playing the world and another at god. The fall of a party, the collapse of our universal government, the reigning anarchy of implosion and big crunches, sit-ups and push-ups of the cosmic order. Simultanaeity, a word that has to be reasoned out, passively resisted by the county roads taking us home.
We'll hold out for stronger winds, clearer skies and the higher pressures which we'll walk for the breeze and blow away when we're not looking at each other. We find ourselves, but lose ourselves right away, spending all the time looking and pulling at our bootstraps until we get the pluck and are set back down someplace else on the board. We're done here, on this page, we've finished it, ragged it out before they could get to it and cut it open while it still held a gleam in it eye. We've denied them the whole of creation.
It's there that we become anything. The thing I have become plays fur and animations across the surface of its face regarded books stacked on a mantle, one day playing the world and another at god. The fall of a party, the collapse of our universal government, the reigning anarchy of implosion and big crunches, sit-ups and push-ups of the cosmic order. Simultanaeity, a word that has to be reasoned out, passively resisted by the county roads taking us home.
We'll hold out for stronger winds, clearer skies and the higher pressures which we'll walk for the breeze and blow away when we're not looking at each other. We find ourselves, but lose ourselves right away, spending all the time looking and pulling at our bootstraps until we get the pluck and are set back down someplace else on the board. We're done here, on this page, we've finished it, ragged it out before they could get to it and cut it open while it still held a gleam in it eye. We've denied them the whole of creation.