W H O L L Y T E X T S

 

LAST WEEK BEFORE THE END/THE FINAL FLASH

In midstream urination, I met Jack Nance. June 19th, the sheen of angst assaulted the 24 fakirs. I sent the box of paper to the dead
Nixon, the 3rd. He grimaced with shame bagels. Most of us spend more time without it. I killed Jack Oswald. Of shit I wonder about my country, tis a meth-dream around, the sound of the name. YUT!
SUCH AN INSTANT BULLET! Such a long display, guts hanging out in my favorite defrocked nuncrack, yes. Is it the ethic of horror we live? We are Ass! Chilled Justine is like your future schizophrenia.
I would like to construct the Cunt Dirge. Tribbles have problems with
automatic hassles! No eyes for the Beast!

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