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Baraka_Guru · 01-24-2010, 07:00 PM

Reading a book is much like writing, except the author in this case is dead. They were secretly disappointed to learn that his was not a cold, lonely existence. Not unlike the universe, evidence suggests the evidence is only partially extant. Magic lantern images of automobiles careening through cold empty rooms filled his dreaming self. His dream-mother was screaming again, but unlike how she once did. That was when she asked how much of the dream was real, and how much consisted of potent exaggerations. Only provocateurs and the profoundly insane were able to see the signs. What was depicted was of Maginot Line proportions, concrete yet fragile. The ice dagger left no traceable evidence behind. They were sure to keep the bitch's finances at the forefront. Examining carefully the evidence in the forefront of the behind area he searched her regions carefully, looking for earwigs using a forehead mount lamp a stethoscope a pair of tweezers and an empty peanut butter jar. Upon examination the only signs of foul play were the briar scratches marking his feet. "But this is also unreal in the same way as all previous states of my being." A reading of Baudrillard would be required but inessential to whether the present course would continue. My instincts tell me to flee, my heart tells me to absorb. Impossibilities arise spontaneously, even in the midst of actuality. Hands clasping the frozen clock had to be pried from their kindred digits. But where they lie is unknown, and so it shall remain until the very undoing of the atmosphere in which they reside. Yet, for several days, we experienced nothing. There was no chance that those remaining who had witnessed the events would remain unchanged. That poor cat...it was hard to believe that someone could actually do something so despicable, for whatever reason. Sacrificially drawn & quartered, he now rests in pieces. The collection of the fragments were promptly put on display at the local museum, where quentin continued his obsessively close examinations of various surfaces of flesh and varnish looking for earwigs and signs of decay. The stench was overpowering. And so the weight of it became such that it was impossible to ignore the ensuing laughter.

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I used the natural lull of the posting as a clean break for stopping our first run at it. Above is the result.

01-24-2010, 07:00 PM	#27 (permalink)
Baraka_Guru warrior bodhisattva Super Moderator Location: East-central Canada	Exquisite Corpse #1 Reading a book is much like writing, except the author in this case is dead. They were secretly disappointed to learn that his was not a cold, lonely existence. Not unlike the universe, evidence suggests the evidence is only partially extant. Magic lantern images of automobiles careening through cold empty rooms filled his dreaming self. His dream-mother was screaming again, but unlike how she once did. That was when she asked how much of the dream was real, and how much consisted of potent exaggerations. Only provocateurs and the profoundly insane were able to see the signs. What was depicted was of Maginot Line proportions, concrete yet fragile. The ice dagger left no traceable evidence behind. They were sure to keep the bitch's finances at the forefront. Examining carefully the evidence in the forefront of the behind area he searched her regions carefully, looking for earwigs using a forehead mount lamp a stethoscope a pair of tweezers and an empty peanut butter jar. Upon examination the only signs of foul play were the briar scratches marking his feet. "But this is also unreal in the same way as all previous states of my being." A reading of Baudrillard would be required but inessential to whether the present course would continue. My instincts tell me to flee, my heart tells me to absorb. Impossibilities arise spontaneously, even in the midst of actuality. Hands clasping the frozen clock had to be pried from their kindred digits. But where they lie is unknown, and so it shall remain until the very undoing of the atmosphere in which they reside. Yet, for several days, we experienced nothing. There was no chance that those remaining who had witnessed the events would remain unchanged. That poor cat...it was hard to believe that someone could actually do something so despicable, for whatever reason. Sacrificially drawn & quartered, he now rests in pieces. The collection of the fragments were promptly put on display at the local museum, where quentin continued his obsessively close examinations of various surfaces of flesh and varnish looking for earwigs and signs of decay. The stench was overpowering. And so the weight of it became such that it was impossible to ignore the ensuing laughter. ______________________________ I used the natural lull of the posting as a clean break for stopping our first run at it. Above is the result. __________________ Knowing that death is certain and that the time of death is uncertain, what's the most important thing? —Bhikkhuni Pema Chödrön Humankind cannot bear very much reality. —From "Burnt Norton," Four Quartets (1936), T. S. Eliot