Has the Glass Melted Yet?

The big page the laughter that which is to be left you can pop that into your mouth and suck it. He is in my room and he is turned off and it has been awhile since you have been up too . What you can't do is talk and write. The yeti foot. How odd. Watch the deal as it comes. Hold steady with that which abides in your mind. Release. How many times have I said that word? The words of the mouth come quick, but the words of the finger are slow. The deal and the corner; the pastiche of the right. When it is molten, glass conducts electricity. If you take the levels that you want to operate on then you put the deal of the done behind the gimme and the stove. Not drive, not push. No sandstorms no copy no forgiveness no more annihilation of the between and betweened. Without the work of the living, what is the thing that is made? How do we pull what we have come to do from that which we do as a matter of the nature of ourselves? When all the time of being is in forming shapes that do not yet exist, is the purpose of any great matter? The words tumble out of my fingers. It is a different feeling, makes a different set of words than the words that my mouth makes and my ears make. We want to align the two because most of our communications are aural. I wonder at the depth. I look at the whole abandonment my mind makes. Wants to flee, wants to skip off and think more and better and faster and wants to win wants to win, wants to win.