The solution is that the more I think about this shit the less I understand. All this crazy ass
shit. I tell them to water it but do this make sense. All these troubled things, all this din.
Package it and send it out before it rots. Tastes like I don't care. Ride the pavement waves
until your knees bleed.
And now the fear begins. My town is a giant aspirin; and everyone is a patient, and they all stay
on hoping to become orderlies. They drink their orange juice like countries. All the rubber
snakes! They go around shouting off their dicks. A serious ultrasound crimes of violence. In a
can. Whose bag is this?
I am Sartorious; are you in a can? An the nutmeg; an the nutmeg. Don't go away now, I need the
take of milk sugar! You ended up a hole in the arm that needed a funnel! You ended up washing
spoons. You ended up a paper bag, you are a fly catcher. Don't give me this bullshit! Drop the
bomb. And flush the toilet. Peace and love exists on the blade of a machete. I hate my
tourguides. I think this job is making me stupid. I think my monitor is giving me cancer.
Cubical drone tunneled to their nine line telephones. My dignity is evaporating. Every day my
trajectory spreads in a Mongoloid thinktank! Kill them kill them kill them and buy antilice
butter. My are is stuck inside the machine. All the chickens are running. All the bullshit is
flowing from my fingers in two liter chickens. I am not amoz. I feed the bulls their own bullshit
and they like it cause God made them to like it. I killed the fat cat and made him into a
skinshade. I am a skincage. The worse it gets the better it seems. Inside my bones there is a
red fluid. There is a yellow fluid. There is a sticky fluid. There is another fluid. Go to hell
you bastard you couldn't do any better. I will kill your cat and all your other animals too,
including your family plus your grandma who can't no longer control herself and needs diapers.
Man, that's how they make the money these days. Male diapers and female diapers; pink and blue
but not in the right order. If people would just stay around they wouldn't disappear so much,
that's what I say.
Two sisters went into the forest to visit the dancing monkey. They wanted to understand what
life was all about. However, on the way, one of them couldn't continue down the path in the
trees. She had a leak. Her life was a sculpture carved out by lost opportunities. So the other
sister continued on down the path, always following the signs which said "This way to the dancing
monkey!" After a while she got old and grew a mustache and some warts. Her ankles puffed up and
she got back problems. "Goddamn, where the fuck is that dancing monkey," she said once per day as
she walked. Finally she got to the tree where the dancing monkey was supposed to be. The dancing
monkey wasn't dancing. It was on the floor, punctured by about seventy arrows. "Fuck this shit."
she said. The End.
Let's say I look at a viola. At first, I notice its appearance. I observe the color, the
differing tones of lacquer over the wood; the delicate grain of the wood itself. I notice the
grains of rosin where the bow has been rubbed against the tarnished silver strings; I notice the
worn out spots on the ebony finger-board where fingers have been pressed downwards thousands of
times. I trace with my eyes the curves of the twin f-holes. Perhaps I become aware of the old,
valuable smell of the viola, then notice how fine the detail-work is at the edges of the
instrument.
Then my thoughts shift, and though I am still looking at the viola I am remembering past
experiences which, by some metaphor, are brought up by the viola... memories... memories...
memories...
And then, all of a sudden, the full force of the viola hits me. In a flash, I realize how much
this viola represents; how many conditions led to the making of the viola, how much human emotion
was invested in the viola... How the viola was created by patient, loving fingers; and then how
other fingers drew from the viola the sounds of human greatness and human agony... The viola
somehow moves me, not as an arrangement of sliced wood but as a symbol of inexpressible things.
The viola is filled with passion and with aching... and so it is filled with beauty.
In this case, it is best to smash the viola to bits.
shit. I tell them to water it but do this make sense. All these troubled things, all this din.
Package it and send it out before it rots. Tastes like I don't care. Ride the pavement waves
until your knees bleed.
And now the fear begins. My town is a giant aspirin; and everyone is a patient, and they all stay
on hoping to become orderlies. They drink their orange juice like countries. All the rubber
snakes! They go around shouting off their dicks. A serious ultrasound crimes of violence. In a
can. Whose bag is this?
I am Sartorious; are you in a can? An the nutmeg; an the nutmeg. Don't go away now, I need the
take of milk sugar! You ended up a hole in the arm that needed a funnel! You ended up washing
spoons. You ended up a paper bag, you are a fly catcher. Don't give me this bullshit! Drop the
bomb. And flush the toilet. Peace and love exists on the blade of a machete. I hate my
tourguides. I think this job is making me stupid. I think my monitor is giving me cancer.
Cubical drone tunneled to their nine line telephones. My dignity is evaporating. Every day my
trajectory spreads in a Mongoloid thinktank! Kill them kill them kill them and buy antilice
butter. My are is stuck inside the machine. All the chickens are running. All the bullshit is
flowing from my fingers in two liter chickens. I am not amoz. I feed the bulls their own bullshit
and they like it cause God made them to like it. I killed the fat cat and made him into a
skinshade. I am a skincage. The worse it gets the better it seems. Inside my bones there is a
red fluid. There is a yellow fluid. There is a sticky fluid. There is another fluid. Go to hell
you bastard you couldn't do any better. I will kill your cat and all your other animals too,
including your family plus your grandma who can't no longer control herself and needs diapers.
Man, that's how they make the money these days. Male diapers and female diapers; pink and blue
but not in the right order. If people would just stay around they wouldn't disappear so much,
that's what I say.
Two sisters went into the forest to visit the dancing monkey. They wanted to understand what
life was all about. However, on the way, one of them couldn't continue down the path in the
trees. She had a leak. Her life was a sculpture carved out by lost opportunities. So the other
sister continued on down the path, always following the signs which said "This way to the dancing
monkey!" After a while she got old and grew a mustache and some warts. Her ankles puffed up and
she got back problems. "Goddamn, where the fuck is that dancing monkey," she said once per day as
she walked. Finally she got to the tree where the dancing monkey was supposed to be. The dancing
monkey wasn't dancing. It was on the floor, punctured by about seventy arrows. "Fuck this shit."
she said. The End.
Let's say I look at a viola. At first, I notice its appearance. I observe the color, the
differing tones of lacquer over the wood; the delicate grain of the wood itself. I notice the
grains of rosin where the bow has been rubbed against the tarnished silver strings; I notice the
worn out spots on the ebony finger-board where fingers have been pressed downwards thousands of
times. I trace with my eyes the curves of the twin f-holes. Perhaps I become aware of the old,
valuable smell of the viola, then notice how fine the detail-work is at the edges of the
instrument.
Then my thoughts shift, and though I am still looking at the viola I am remembering past
experiences which, by some metaphor, are brought up by the viola... memories... memories...
memories...
And then, all of a sudden, the full force of the viola hits me. In a flash, I realize how much
this viola represents; how many conditions led to the making of the viola, how much human emotion
was invested in the viola... How the viola was created by patient, loving fingers; and then how
other fingers drew from the viola the sounds of human greatness and human agony... The viola
somehow moves me, not as an arrangement of sliced wood but as a symbol of inexpressible things.
The viola is filled with passion and with aching... and so it is filled with beauty.
In this case, it is best to smash the viola to bits.