Another Dare

The overactive act of acting in the actual de-tunes the bass rhythm, drop D, every 'UGH' on the octave of Staley. I

Want to lie about this flat line.

Entropy frozen theory: although I axe-throw-nudge through actions while acknowledging some inner actuality or whatever,

Always the bad actor.

…Getting harder, Villain--origin in…

Case

Dissolver.

Head is now a hoarder’s hovel, shaking off another wobble, Flower Guy forced into slyness. Sky-high reality defier, reshaper of the 3rd eye’s blindness, analog, drive-by-wire--'yes, the tires will remain on fire,' kind of Flower Guy.

Nested, right in there, hear it? Scribbling in pen, aware of the break-in always, scratching on pages sounds like that consistent snare that, march step on the Viking ship, at times, grows a professional kit that takes three drummers to—OHHHHHH!

---------------------throwsafit.--------------------

Currently on a wit dip. Loaded up, stripped, and working that

                                                            Blue

                                        Ink. Mink shit. So, the slow-mo glow of the daemon radiating in amber standby mode. Hyperactive, attractive, eyes standing up to introspective Demonic forces—huh, who?—siphoning to sharpened-up collective. If

                           Left on

                              On an ISLAND, what three things—

The First sings, so watch your mouth. Then a pistol and a bullet, but if by the good graces this counts the escape chute as one, a work of fiction, pick one, (surprise me) in my diction, with working eyes or glasses.

Build the society of us until the reading is leisurely. Go through the text a few times, get innovative with the lore, the implications, rewrite this version of me, rebuild the world to the book must live in, test its lucidity.

If it’s bad

You know, the chute...

Be easy in the chaos. The loss is the conquest we’re strangely all on. Repeat your mantra; don’t just review it. Under your breath if you must. Odd view in the disconnection from your previous extinction-level event in your former private sector—

PLEASE, STOP. DON’T ENTER THE SCENE! I don’t know what exploded, Cap, but until these messages seared on the opal crystal of the blast are deciphered; we got a Schrödinger’s Smith’s Family on our hands, and we’re burying three fingers and a kneecap at best. If Air B&Bs

                                                            Get

                                        Any

                    Cheaper. Be the spirit, sleep the vessel. These tussles, rabid kerfuffles are the collateral handful for the cause, they say. The scars will be left, I'm now understanding. Call it an under estimated Ambian drift, call it a Plot hole in the life story that, if I knew better, was a breach of the Daemon possession contract. “Well, I’m not going there.”  Consider each one of these a dare from the Beyond Inquiry Desk to entertain the Investigator Beyond the Glare-less Stare waiting for my next appointment.