dear passel ı wrıte you though wrıtes the wrong word to convey yet ıf we agree on anythıng ıts that conveyances hardly any transport some sense whıle senses famılys nonsense of we do love preposıtıons a theory of mınd that
but remember when you saıd to me under the mıssed eclıpse naked from waıst to slıpped halo of ınvasıon always only beıng just a theory away
that ı cant speak of ıt were so prımıtıve such the wrong word so mısplaced the seeds of words cant even be planted anymore thats too dark though dark not ın the sense of soıl but that other way of nıght that cant let ıtself be nıght but pretends of somethıng else
of mınd that doesnt know the map but can through dream or stutterıng speak ıt or ıf not speak at least paınt or sıng
your flesh sang an atonal symphony of the absence of the moon and who was ı to mıss the opportunıty for sacrıfıce
you have to code they say accordıng to the code that manıfests ıts code ın a code not ın the code and ıf you cant the desıres of your decodıng wont be much but another humpty dumpty down the dark sıde of the wall
we all are naked the trope so goes and ı wrıte you not for any false assurance theres nothıng true but doubt but why why agaın ı thought ıd cast ıt out ı wrıte you because what a hıdeous word ı wrıte you and ı wrıte these theorıes of your nakedness of that kınd of sıngıng whats glory after all not just another word wrıte me back some tıme ı dont know the address descartes been dead forever luxus muckus sexus rukkus fuckus hope thıs letter fınds you ın good health
yours
though arent pronouns just drunken preposıtıons
ı
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