Land of Diskgrinder

Must stop writing past midnight

The purpose of heavy things is to get to the bottom of valleys So what's the purpose of gravity?

1000 words a day It may take some time working up to that, but then the figured climb may take some reasoned acclimatisation there It's not like I can think of anything that would engender 1000 words of coherent thought Back up and beholden to the reek of conscionable ideals, each less well than the last That's an overuse of the intellect, right there. Why does it seem that an attribution or situation is any better told by my drunken brother safe in his cups, than me, plying the trade of intoxicated vigour. I should put a question mark after that, but have run out of cigarettes and alcohol so therefore won't. Maybe I'll revisit Albonia (link) where I managed to put in all the various wholes that weren't half summed by bright realisation. Means and averages - Darwin couldn't work out why natural selection didn't average out until it's found the bland answer to grass and tree, or the desert, is the solution: a million miles of altruistic vegetable ...

Introduced by fuck weevils, this phone has all the features of this other phone, but with added sweaty importuning It has more features, but like a face, doesn't really require them It has bigger cream and more vanilla. And this is supposedly asked for. Therefore it wins the fuck out of the competition the other phone didn't enter

the best way to save elasctic

This is where the hold gets hardened milspec wiser Where the bunker mental rides Where you stop keeping on Where it peters out Where that's it and gone Other than this truffles pig

Some dogs digging through the mess of when we died found an electric regress Where static angels climbed up tesla's poles And magnetically said This is the reason, this is why this curls around And then it's dead again The shallow brown litter of where once we were Now wind goes, and stirs up tickets and coupons Round the base of latter triumph, dead and gone Here wolf

Sucks up colours and makes it black and white Takes history and makes it semaphore signifier for gone time Somehow, sometime sucks the pith and vinegar And renders it two tone two steps removed But this is my life metered out in fading photographs And yellow print

Towing a line out of the reeks of someone else's canal This is the reason and rhyme of not doing it. Not having it and being angry and redfaced, and spitting vinegar in the line. Wondering when I'm not the recipient for every other little bitter aside. It's enough to have a happy heart?