Central Smoke Bone
She had grown red and corpse-like below the Danish authority standard issue yellowish canopy beyond the dune and deadwood. Nearby, the crusted and congealed, many rats in hazel frozen a on twig.
Bleating, and she a sheep, that sand crackled and raised in the wool course of the afternoon. The wife to pooling streaks of curly substances — with areas glued to highlighted clauses and codicils.
A lining of corn is what I picked out — usually in far arcs instead of center nodules. I noticed dried mud and qualities of contractual clouds of condensed water on all sides of the pace window.
I sawed the far central branches — and what of the ears?
In an increasing density at the left of the central smoke bone, she said: “what an attractive calumny as the stumble chooses. What does he choose?”
I chose. Her. Intently.
I dove tumble blind. The rocks (later chosen) over the chin into what we consider sticking faux yellow moves in air. Did you?
You, who watched living rings in our mouths of technology and compared those to wire geologic plates — tectonic, venous, glowing yellow and white.
You found that sort of catheter like feature — a leaf growing dizzy in the eddy of a creek.
“I believe that in art, the things you wouldn’t want in real life can be entertained or understood, or even seen and examined.”
— Mary Gaitskill