apres_renechar paste! surprise! it's the fauxilliary viewcircle that fell out of the door and represents a page in the book labeled shifter of insured auras that features a man, a shell and a doorjam. between these slices of bread is a snapping whisper that challenges those shiny wrappings around red chambers and the garnish of tides of emphatic twang strummings of an alt-nevercantell. when the dynamo brings home gyrating slabs of an animal that tumbled down, no more, it stops here and twists into a blinder's statue heralded to be the great fishbat of king solemnititty the 18th of capital lair trexiconus, stacks of peanuts, trick or sneak street breakdown whilst surverying the hut of adamantine shamelessness. i guess from here there's supposed to be a big fun piecing together of selected entities but instead the submarine submerses itself in a vat of outcast wine destined for boxes. it can't stop itself from outrunning the poor lice that scram all about the magestic hairpiece at the center of the sun. given days, weeks maybe, it'll come face to face with a beta-testing of the fearless mango puppeteer, who can create a tropical outrage for the parents of slippery parakeets named vesuvius, charles, rita, carmella and leonardo to mention a few. they waltz around with bushy eyes generally feeling out their liberties before they gotta start emptying out the trash cans among designated chores to be named at a later date. this time around, keep out the impossible shivers. there was a hiding object somewhere. it is not an egg nor a grain of rice. it is not under the neglected parachute. it is not flan, charcoal, or a combination of the two. i think it might be the lungs of a prison wall, or maybe the shriveling pride of a dying tornado. it just could be the rocks and plenty of them. it is the stretch of her enchanted lips as they flicker around a straw and regrettable didisaythats. it is the off key growl of a new kind of bird. it is metal against flower petals. it is tragic when the bills comes but to understand that have credit and an alternate name as you've been walking, speaking, travelling, regressing, progressing, eating and shuffling upside down and you get a little bit of a discount for shaking up the exhibit's decrepid flair. click the burning general and win a stereophonic bubblebath courtesy of the siamese killer whale foundation est. 1995. i've got to admit, you have a knack for the perishable. there was this time when it was so ephemeral to even stand up anymore, but then they gave us these collection c-cups and now i can map the choicer landmarks and x-out all of the extraneous pigeonshit pop vulture seamful hostility magnets in a deeper shade of ign'ant and it sounds like something is tugging at these invisible coattails called get the fuck on the tracks jack and put the gray tap on the snapjaw loch ness buffet; i need some food here. 020509 what's it to you? who go blather from