Deep From The Archives

This page is set up for lengthy exposition, which is ironic considering the large amount of empty space up here. I can hear footsteps upstairs and I can hear you talking to your cat. I don't think she (your cat) appreciates the high-pitched voices. I don't. I sit and listen to your conversation seep through my ceiling, footsteps like machinegun punctuation. What is purpose? Purpose is the near-constant fluctuation of pen choice. .05 versus .07. It would seem as though I cannot make up my mind--but how does one make up one's mind? This is a most perplexing issue, I feel. Perhaps a .06 is in order. And a quest for right angles. Ghosts, air, and vacuum. I spilled a sip of coffee into a cut on my left index finger. It hurt. Burned like a smallish star lodged between the joints. Children, full of teeth. The decision to flee came suddenly. So what is this experience, now? Let us go and rob the supermarket. I will take all the Wheat Thins. You will take all the orange juice. I will also take all the chicken alfredo Hot Pockets, for research purposes. Fear those people who say things. Can you grasp that, man? You can take all the sparkling grape juice. And here is a new test: the things that we deem normal. Only with pink pants and apple juice. But how is this possible? Initial mystique gives way to horse beating messiah posing. Swimming in death. I will eat the sun. I will eat the son of god. I will eat god. So many words that want to be written--perhaps if I cloned myself and had the clones fill this book with words to complete the book-filling requirement and then take the clones and make a baseball team out of them--I guess it would take at least nine clones to fill this book in a reasonable time. Atmospherics are in full effect, keep this in mind at all times.