🚀 go-pugleaf

You're a bit late in your death-notices, stewheart, though no later
than the late John Cage: I mourned him in three silent movements in
the half-lit hours of Thursday: a slow movement toward you, a pause
for thought, a drawn-out movement closer, and a devastating finale of
inaudible noise noise noise plate-crashing-against-wall as I realised,
as usual, hell, you weren't there.  You know how cheating does not
exist?  Well, are you sure, really really sure?  Falling upstairs
every night, I figure how, if you're sure, one fortified dose of
epiphenomenonalism could consign you traceless to the void, which
shows nothing more than that those stairs are bloody dangerous.
Where that would leave me depends on whether or not I exist, and
that's something else you haven't yet told me.

You can't have Arthur; I saw him first.  Infidelity, in your case,
is punishable by death, both yours and his.

Please, let me know if you're going to hang yr rosary beads on the
hides of perished Extropians, it'll finely-grate my ready-shred heart
to subscribe to a list of such sensitive nicety, but actions
prescribed by the finer print of the every-step-you-take Unaccepted
Promise, easier if you weren't so damned contrary, are viperformed
thoughtlessly forthwith in watchfulness to abide away the hours till
you choose to move softly into place.  "Cretins", I quoted to myself,
"Cretins"; M, grab the super-glue, piece pell-mell together the
fragments of 90% unsleeping idylls that you are, never forget the
yeux (try setting them backward in yr head: you might take notes on
the workings of yr mind to relay to me; people being so used to Bill's
strange looks round here, they won't mind the blood-vesselish parts
to which Great Poets do not write Great Poems being visible [Ode: "Now
You Lay You Down To Sleep // I Plot Your Malformed Nerves To Keep //
If You Should Die Before You Wake // I Will Take It As A Personal
Insult And Make Something Terrible Happen To You Darling Will You Marry
Me Don't Botch The Scene Say Yes 'Cause That Was An Intrinsic Proposal
And This Is The Last Take"]), beaux until proved otherwise, and,
oubliaisoning the what's-best that's whatever you're wanting, come be
my junk-mail, my chinese fan, my enemy edible, my Dana-basher, my
train-set, my dead cat juke-box... no, wait, don't move, stay right
there while I get a camera, you look so... very...pretty when you smile.