Dec 12 23
We went ahead knowing it was a mistake.
We went ahead knowing it was a mistake.
We went ahead knowing it was a mistake.
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The hiss and rattle of spray paint, mixed with the barking of boys across a river.
The sparkling tinkle of oars as they leave the water, mixed with the gentle thumping of floating detritus inside the hull of a canoe.
The likely un-smelled smell of a receipt from a rake, purchased to clear up a yard on a Saturday, last Fall.
A can of Diet Coke, being drunk by an employee sitting in the sun, outside a factory, that prints “COEXIST” bumper stickers.
A discarded juicebox that was sipped by the daughter of a guy who works at a Knoxville, Tennessee factory that manufactures cheap knives.
Those that laugh, conspicuously, loud. Those both blissfully ignorant and kind. Those both blissfully ignorant and cruel. The hellishly aware.
Ducks in a row literally, ducks in a row figuratively; ducking below a row of pipes on a submarine. Crumbs at the bottom of a bag. A soft forest floor of pine needles. Delivery trucks. Monster trucks. Religious nuts. Walnut shells. The sound in a seashell. People who agree with groups for safety but don’t really agree with anyone at all. Those that regret violence immediately. Those that regret violence in their twilight years. Sociopaths. All the fingernail clippings of all the actors in the Twilight movies. The sound of wrapping paper being torn off a copy of Montesquieu’s Persian Letters. The sound of a letter being opened that reads “Internal Revenue Service — Time Sensitive.” Concrete cracks intermingled with sidewalk gum patterns. The voluntary. The involuntary. Avoidances. Goals. E-signatures as well as shifting sands. Limited scopes that lead to depraved confidence. Unforeseen consequences. The rules of the body. The horror of boundlessness. The mercy of limitation. The near impossibility of communication. The pitiless stares from relative safety. The sound of small waves on a cobblestone beach. The masks of confidence. Whistling woodcocks. Tom of Finland cocks. The filled molar of a hunter, who intentionally missed shooting a deer, but kept it to himself. Capybaras. Candelabras. The phrases top ‘o the mornin’ and please don’t leave me. All sport and spores. Every spider in Montauk in a pile. Ambiguous lists.
We went ahead knowing it was a mistake.
We went ahead knowing it was a mistake.
[error]
[kernel stack memory corruption detected]
The hiss and rattle of spray paint, mixed with the barking of boys across a river.
The sparkling tinkle of oars as they leave the water, mixed with the gentle thumping of floating detritus inside the hull of a canoe.
The likely un-smelled smell of a receipt from a rake, purchased to clear up a yard on a Saturday, last Fall.
A can of Diet Coke, being drunk by an employee sitting in the sun, outside a factory, that prints “COEXIST” bumper stickers.
A discarded juicebox that was sipped by the daughter of a guy who works at a Knoxville, Tennessee factory that manufactures cheap knives.
Those that laugh, conspicuously, loud. Those both blissfully ignorant and kind. Those both blissfully ignorant and cruel. The hellishly aware.
Ducks in a row literally, ducks in a row figuratively; ducking below a row of pipes on a submarine. Crumbs at the bottom of a bag. A soft forest floor of pine needles. Delivery trucks. Monster trucks. Religious nuts. Walnut shells. The sound in a seashell. People who agree with groups for safety but don’t really agree with anyone at all. Those that regret violence immediately. Those that regret violence in their twilight years. Sociopaths. All the fingernail clippings of all the actors in the Twilight movies. The sound of wrapping paper being torn off a copy of Montesquieu’s Persian Letters. The sound of a letter being opened that reads “Internal Revenue Service — Time Sensitive.” Concrete cracks intermingled with sidewalk gum patterns. The voluntary. The involuntary. Avoidances. Goals. E-signatures as well as shifting sands. Limited scopes that lead to depraved confidence. Unforeseen consequences. The rules of the body. The horror of boundlessness. The mercy of limitation. The near impossibility of communication. The pitiless stares from relative safety. The sound of small waves on a cobblestone beach. The masks of confidence. Whistling woodcocks. Tom of Finland cocks. The filled molar of a hunter, who intentionally missed shooting a deer, but kept it to himself. Capybaras. Candelabras. The phrases top ‘o the mornin’ and please don’t leave me. All sport and spores. Every spider in Montauk in a pile. Ambiguous lists.