Just imagine if he could access – one hundred percent of what is recklessly real …
These difficulties are fierce at being decidedly formidable – enviously misplaced, playing themselves all of the way back in-between
A half idea, the full idea, working your way through all of these hiding impossibilities and exhausting your literary intent aside jovially unpardonable attack
He writes to resolve as though these are the last eight-minutes of his life
And she is halfway between Oxford and Cambridge, the sacrosanct divide, all nocturnally estranged eyes riotously, rather righteously arisen
Welcome to Left-Behind Street, oh plagiarised people – wherein these marvels create upstanding citizenship midst dilapidated sedation, a coffee-swill, that pink sinking
wail and the break
midnight – a magician takes something ordinary and places it by extraordinary, wherein these over-enhanced lives hang in the balance again
These intertwined and delirious decisions of delicately misshapen hers, just what is the most important contribution as it appears to let itself finally, invitingly, altogether inevitably be … from one such sacrilege contribution it seems to be …
That we can disperse and deduce absolutely almost very nearly everything from within these listening, listless ears of yours
For agonising portrayal again
And his favourite people interest him so soon as his – their – eyes realign and find the time to relay their upside-down anguish-laden misery midst this – his racing pen-shell
Toward the end of the war, they get to decide who dies and who dies by the lie of the law … yet, the pen still stands, lonely and alone and entirely vilified by life
Oh, but they will get their ultimate and untimely comeuppance through this time-travelling, uttermost scintillating and violating creation, however posthumous it may well get to letting itself translucently, truculently being …
He’s been building one from derelict fiction since the turn of the breathless century – yes, he is a hard-scrambled kid at prey-pretend, plays it again and all over the place til he makes it
Matter the most in the whole snide-eyed and improbable world of ours
A dapper gentleman, all hands upon desk again
Is the true sign of genius really to destroy their eyes right by the ulterior-motived realignment within the snake and drive of these whispering, well-wishing words which will forever attempt at tenaciously reinvesting til forever making them cry?
And is he really a walking talking super-computer – some shall pardon and bargain upon themselves and say it – endlessly.
Even if he gets to see absolutely none of it.
Aren’t these the people who simply care to remember?
He is obsessed with the shape of their ineptitude
And he gets the sincere-most feeling he’s been walking in their dreams … by the nose-dive, the prestige of the prolonged swan-dive
This is the inception, that aforementioned silenced ear-piece – the handheld master-release … that paralysing act of beginning … and sinning … all over again
Commence when he is ready, please … take them to their destination, for it’s been ear-marked and waiting