The mesh fabric was quaggy ethereal in time-worn scraggly sepia, the edges brown and decomposing, but the aesthetic gist of it was pretty much still white on white on white.
Reaching that sweet pinnacle, that interpersonal miracle, the moment when disclosure coalesces self and other: explaining our subjective experiences of the day when first we met! What was said, what was meant, what was thought but tightly kept, motivations, hesitations, what we later told our friends.
Help me show this fashion food across my distribution news. I know it's not a contest, but to the extent that it is, palatable taste doesn't factor, not even a little bit.
Six things that are weird enough are darkness, running water, moonlight, giant insects, wind in leaves, friends speaking foreign languages. It's too late to count backward, because you never measured. It's too late to count forward, because what's gone is gone.
The producer said to "do whatever you have to do to get cranked up" but I didn't have any crank, so I did the best I could with what I had on hand.
Which would nakedness, if wasting less of upper hide, skin covered by, at least the same afforded sordid canned fur hand-turned backwards asking show me any holes sewn and I'll you a coat reversible.
The loss of self-identity the paramount defeat, to the atemporal emptiness of impotence is linked, as if life licenses lifelessness when making indistinct and issues sickness, something missing, if it isn't grunting, twisting in an orgy of conceit.