without flesh
Digressed again - maybe you hadn't noticed. Everything a
digression from the flat wall of meaning nothing. Can't imagine the still
reliance on story. A mouse cage mill, a running commentary exercising the
imagined bodies of persona and the blinding blips of assorted intoxications.
Buying so many pages of brain fever on hard paper. A book is as
reassuring as a building, it's language as a shelter, a veritable skelton to
uphold the flesh of our individual mortality.
Electronic text
wavers as a nervous impulse from the writer to the
reader.