🚀 go-pugleaf

"Fun": yes, the Transylvanian years given way to a shelf-stacking phase
of solidly paranoid hysterricolous reign-dancing, out of voguerre,
lace-edged handkerchief clutched in shaky grasp as I ask you if you think
they, you know, THEM, are all on yr side, as opposed to mine, or would be
if they cared, which, bien entendupes, they don't.  Not that it matters,
doesn't matter at all, just as well to muse utensil-less on the states
of humanity as illustrated by Daniel in usage or non-usage of forks, and
wonder whether case (iii), having mistaken belief in ability to use
cutlery but not currently in possession of fork (how long do you think
Bill has in that job?), bars the person thus afflicted from
martyrdomesticity in academise.  And yet, only consider: even without yr
own undoubted fork-wielding expertise, you might gain required (social
ost)riches by offering _M Seemingly Coming To Pieces, September, 1992_
as sacrifice to Damn Modern Art.  That'd be... nice.

>Hmmm.... let's see: the tried and true blue flag raised in sublimation
>come and that the wolves would try to take me" (... and you were right)?

All of the above, none of the above; though words remain elusive,
"[seraphantastic treasuretyship]" might somewhat showily approximate it
in vague prison-terms-of-endear(ma)ment [Sing: "old doc einstein has //
abolished time but they // haven t got the news at // sing sing yet"].
(                               ˆ-----------------------------------sic)
What makes you believe that all I see, all I touch, all I think, is
not already M-medi(t)ated, extrapolated from yr existence in
trapolepositioned well-pleated kilterpsichorean (careful, m'dear, or
I'll remind you of yr black mini) rock&rolls of the rilly imperative
wish that this userid should be castled in yr mind, if nowhere else,
when killed in action, adventure, romance, go-go dancers: chorus,
please, Arthur: "crazy..."

>REDACTOR REDUX! Coming soon: a boldfaced lie to make up for the fear
>that I'm beginning to lapse too close -- but then you don't really want
>to hear any of this, do you?

Don't fret yourself, those tiresome redactors have been comprehensively
reduxed, moved to Alaska, no less, so they won't be bothering you again.
Do I want to hear any of this?  Well, yes: having always looked (& failed)
to flit point-device at arm(oury)'s length for fear of the partie's
foundering, I still pace gentle geometries round the Enemy (see, capital),
even to the lapserrated Edge: in Postcards From: I love him.  Further, it
is forbidden to forebode ill enough or just (sub)dued in djadedness of
the months and des ans to cease to play steadfast&loose (with) the song
that sussurrates constantalising in my head.  Given time, stewheart, I'll
fake amends & build you a sophisticated in-house Smiling system with
fitted carpets so you don't say such dumb things: to lapse too closely
here is impossible.

H.