Friday, April 19, 2013

But, what is normal...

Fleeting Fancy passed Hammerschmidt’s Guilt, eyes wide and bulging.

Shock had set apart all predisposed recommendations.

A day crept at similar pace with engaged depth encumbered beyond recollection.

Frantic, erratic, electric, erotic Surge protected but was absent this hour of engulfed strain.

Without altercation and exposed phonetically the weary stigmatized step bound beyond buoyancy.

All said was done to move without question, automatic, no longer a need, randomly a thread simply set into weave, dark and stuck, no hope for escape, simply engaged as a product for consumption not creation, the esoteric instance begged from within but bitstream overcome with pace, survival born to enact and kindness forgotten.

The rush, overwhelmed and underrepresented, torrentially rained denial of service - banked by upended prospects beneath the current and dragged by fiasco.

The string pulled, the sweater undone, contempt rusted as roots bound together deep within crust – the underworld aglow with black, a market but no rule nor system or bounds… a free range commune.

The portal closed and Fleeting Fancy made sense of the exposed injustice enacted to normalcy and welcomed by the absolute cleanliness of the kernel.


...and what is nonsense?

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