As the cream on the cup is, most accurately, the jazz you always feared. Whatever is next, whatever is next is not what it was. Is is is; was was, was. Not nothing, yet certainly not much of anything.
Futility will not give way to fear, except that the phenomenal might force its way out from itself and into whatever dynamism it is that keeps it kicking, that lets it linger on getting somewhere, that that that.
And the edge of sanity still daunts us, me and my laptop, for sanity itself, too much to actually tempt me, eat me, mutilate. Me. If this is one of the first novels you are reading, that should should should be your doom, or else a parent of yours, depending of course on taste and regimen.
Don’t hold onto the feeling too long; it’ll wire you up to yourself, to the obsessive and disgusting slabs better left as fat. And forgotten (obviously). It’s almost like we’re getting somewhere once again, but not. We’re not. Don’t get all frothy already, it’s not attractive. Not very, but you could fix her up by stuffing a cork in it. If you could. If you would.
My smile wears on, a moment too far past the announcement that Bush was arguably, attemptably thrown a grenade at. Still the pleased, if small, chortle hung over into a statement of small child murder. And the eventual announcement of the children’s father as suspect, and who would believe it?? He, who once chased, he did chase a neighbor with a loaded chainsaw, et cetera. And all in Texas, who would think? A sweet sweet state. The presidential appliqué.