a_saloon_patio paste! lick up the disproportionate spill of my blood running from this ear to that ear of corn. it IS a fungus a therapeutic strain an enraged brain that stands on the stool and falls flat on some lichens and mossy plethoras of select rebellioso types like burning ferns and vendetta figleaf mummies a couple of rogue player pianos come in untouched and the saloon, it is, is stuck in centrifugal motion by a god of levitation who stands outside with a slim jim wand snapping into it, raising the saloon off its dusty baseplate. dry your eyes temptress there are herbs in this stew. you scream for patios! for patios! for patios! there is one, by day, off with sun. take my leg and arm we shall, you and i, go there, yes? choose horses. find produce. the aneurysms thin out by apology noticing three sizes of fear in step, how slow, and saddle up the ambulances 021126 ... ever dumbening the driftwoods outnumber the tumbleweeds now, such is the suchness of grids and their cartesian limitations. it's getting crusty in the vestibule, overrun with arthropods and the like. it's a wonder the suns set anymore with all their bickering, the sky fat with too much coral, too much chorus, no bisons. sharp dresser, he, in his leather smile and andes mints dispenser. lemonades and lemniscates are not his forte, but the tabletop carvings that leap from his bowie knife will ne'er leave you wanting. dormant bricks line the rounded corners, and the couriers bring them like japanese trains and seaweed candies, with alacrity, without specious reasoning or expectations of half-joys. tried not, nor true, the saloon waits for a notarization that will likely not arrive. transients and trancendentalists alike vie for a crack at the roadshow's cribbage table, ivory and tagua inlay. fine craftsmanship that. randall the cat holds sway over the scurrilous ferns and orchids in this sub-tropical paradise. and the riverboat's calliope jitters with pre-teen precision and impatience. 021127 what's it to you? who go blather from