W H O L L Y T E X T S

 

I'M A CANCER DANCING IN THE GUTTER OF UTOPEEAH

Gotta be capable and ready to kill. Gotta be up to snuffing. According to traditional values. Of teeth and catheter tubes running thru World War Justice. I can't see my one eyeball in the mirror and that means I've never seen anything. According to the prevailing majority's electoralizing colleges. I want to be so stupid I could believe in God's directions, yellow checks on the streets paved in mechanical syncronizational randomness, go and stop and caution... ...speed right through! VIZUALTURE! FINGERTIPS BRITTLE I'd pierce the bull if his DNA was malfunctioning! I've lived two lives on this planet. I'll take the second one, please! Somebody hadn't the guttural to take the paradox to its final apex. Still dextrose-dreaming to unite with my felinic partner(Juka, Nala) AND MY BIKINI BOTTOM FALLS OFF! She's got rat-eyes while I rub her stomach. Purple FBI cells inhabit my door's molecules and I CAN'T SEE MY HANDS! SO please? God, government, static state, Jesse, Danny, mofather, genetic tumblers, universal genitilia Dupla, shake of the accidental natural course(amino acids and cooling shit...millions and billions and infinity minus three-point-three nanoseconds)...allow me one day of self-defense and inculcated freely derangement. THE REORGANIZATION IS THE REAL BLISS! Or so I say. Anyway, the weapons are exclusive. Ramainnotesounauka!

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