Of Interest and Secrecy

(..a practice in practice..)


The streets were paved with gold and the phrase 'cliché' was nowhere to be seen on signs all pointing to one product. He'd bought several, his suit not entirely his own or entirely a suit-- the fabric fading into more common wear that he remembered as a child and had not anticipated. He hit a snag like an invisible line and his whole body zig-zagged with the buildings as the world went into a camera feed and then out of it.

The dark was mysterious, but not dogmatically so, not without an imbalance of palatable lights to show off everything in spinning, somber colors. Comic-book doors surrounded him which he thought would open to glossy paper stories from the smell of them even miles away. Something caught up with him and gave him a small fright, like his old tenant's fire-breathing yarns blanketing the shelves under mounds of "magical" dust.

He reached for a lighter and a cigar but he only found a flood of unused keychains which drowned out his pockets from practical use. Digging deeper he fell into his pocket and found the street he was looking for apart from being locked in a car that stole itself and drove stationary across moving surroundings. A humanly grasshopper in the backseat pardoned him, "Its all just bits of porogramming. We'll be heading to the best nowhere in a tick."

The sky rushed with his stomach and he felt his skin around his eyes drag without moving. His focus was scattered on many events of weeks past him and their spontaneous side-notes of occuration and futurist occupation. It all left a spawn of personal, invisible indignation at the unreality of reality and the lackluster finality of his stop. He got out of the car and everything pulled around him like liquid, so he pulled a half of a map from each arm to find the directions to a freezer.

"Of Interest and Secrecy." The third character (?) replied, stopping a repetitive facade of motion which was to progress the anti-drawings. The fish sticks were done by now and the timer was on top of the third character's head, so he or she ran down the second set of steps from third floor to first, where the apartment buildings were all walled off to accommodate empty cups and raffle-machines; the kind of things the first character found prior to a late exploration of a dingy Saturday or Thursday on the seventh of every Tuesday, passover the bridge (and buy it with some land): which is where he left, looking for the letter seven in an empty nailbox.

Finding the letter, the mail was sealed, sent, and never arrived by intention-- email, son, email. The first character did not liked this and reacted with a kicking jolt that seemed neverlasting, the paper unfolding past the printer modules which were never manafactured and scared off sitcom characters from the nineties-- whom had all devolved to goons that poised and posed for poison and passivity.
           
In 'keeping it fresh' crock-pots were filled full of scary stories and felt up by iconic holiday wannabes forced into the maneuver; he copped out by changing his hands to hooks with friar fangs, while constables halted in mental constipation looked to the dripping ceiling for the next big break.
           
Name was Ramenbytrade, three words unto total collapse (makes the nonsense clean).. I normally am not a fan of vocals in trance music, but this is awesome. I'm a better loser than I was three years ago, I'm able to fail more which gives me more focus, "Ramenbytrade said, heart problem-- sodium salad." Sprinting salmonella ending.
           
Certain words have different charges which buys a quarter you and sells you to the darkest portion of the split. Would you like me to reiterate? It all storted, sanding the walls, so tired, keep the grey moose in his shrinking prison, if her cell comes open the violence wrecks the sfin. Eye see too. Everyone who makes a big deal out of nothing, anyone who's censored for secondary colors.

You wouldn't dare travel my path, judge. He sought. And the exploratory exposition had left its loose characters to shatter in the wind: falling like chipping icicle statues downtown or down mountain.

He found himself surrounded by rows, and the clerks behind them talked to themselves. They said, "The new art is disorder; the canvas, the mind."

And they repeated themselves in knivoons.

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