flourescent
luminous failure following design principles home to the Atlantic Center foodcourt like a lost puppy.
Health clubbers master stairs, cycle, and tread behind screens through the windows above.
meditation bitch
Today, she says, erase everything, every symbol you can find on every flat surface of your cubicle. Tomorrow she'll say: fill those surfaces again, do a dance routine, a rote jiggle of writing, sometimes typing, for the inevitable information archive at the outer edge orbital plane of the biggest li'l electron in the world.
Cuticles sound like cubicles, crucial when you're bobbing your head in a sufi swoon, and the main theme exposition is glued symphonically to subject B, or maybe simply welded, crude efficiency, maximum chromosomal distortion of thematic intent, mainly.
The meditation bitch reminds me there's a first person here, and there is a 72nd floor room where that american can-do guru journalist tripped on microdots from a pillbox and used the experience for a chapter of a hardcover that sold copies, presumably.
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