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.
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.
Ignored at the meeting by the monstrous chad because of the easily missed frequency of my voice, when I tried to be friendly and join the co...
I'm working out new ways to perform and record. They take the form of melodic fragments, half-assed renditions of half-remembered songs,...