Gestalt 2 A. Mitchell Synchronious With Seconds

Save up the seconds & they mold.
I went out in the sunlight and cooked my soul on the sidewalk, but no _ casual water could be seen. The lifting power of my legs exhausts the sandwich. Pure air is nothing but contaminants to the anaerobic self; bees buzz from hive to blossom to dancefloor.

If I look at the rings under your eyes I see last night's prison break; & I know you are still in range of the sniper-guards. There is a plan for all of this, but the planner has been catatonic so long that there is no way to tell how far off the rails it's gone. I suspect it's going well. Skinny kids want to eat that plate of motorcycle carburators, along with the pineal glands of the fat fucks. When women flip them off do they wonder, invariably, what their digits would feel like shoved up their corn-holes? Well, I don't ever worry about it enough to excuse putting a question mark there.

Synchronious with seconds, I'd like to push out your portable crayon sets and melt them into molds of potholes.