This is my reflection and its ripple-variant thousands clued to the center of an amazing secret outward bound by a skinly disguise hobble-knobbed by walking wherever under the shadow of an extending idea. Each step began the ball of power snapping up a fence releasing electrical noise with the smell of an armpit - I take notice of the clock only once I am trying to sleep, as I'm trying to slip under a hazy, answering blanket of potentially bad breath and alarms by birds - clocks mean so little compared to a simple, hinting color tuned to a bland absence well-portrayed by De Chirico or a child. And it has always been strange how the outside pokes the inside, the anemone, and stirs up landscapes' worth of tide pools worth of trickling squirts in which each is held the weight of the world. A lever releases and dumps forth a compost past-visual gelatinized odoriforous Chinese finger trap made of hair bouncing around teh interior body bag like a slinky on fire and ice at once, melting with mercurial intention, metaquantum music. Strange how the inside pokes around lonely for its own love song and cracks the anima's knuckles saying: "Bend the truth but go easy on the numbering. Large numbers spawn nightmares..." And this is why we chew toenails - a doctor's words, possibly poorly diagnosed. Well, suppose the roots are clipped thought the top continues growing, in which case, we have circumstances by which we hold constellations responsible, not the sun, not the bees, not the birds. Even the soil can go for a while - even the soil. The cross-sections of the wind's funny-boned lace lake sweeps away and carries the colors through wearing whorles, big wigs of the somewhat invisible onion. Little waves that don't go far play with their puddle home going as far as possible before the foot comes ("A.F.A.P.B.T.F.C.") eventually leaving not much but what we have layed down to guide us. Ultimately, shallow closets overcluttered for unpredictable weather - eventuall the move will come: bamboo-beached houses, novels easles, brushes, staves, sun beams, furs... Day will never begin or end but just become this thick sphere of life with seasons and new moods with shark eggs for mail. Milk delivered to the doorstep of the chest in the stained glass containers came chipped from their smack against the collar bone. "That's what happens when you try to get up too quickly..." It was on the paper next to the bottles.