He asked for it. On a stick 14:06, September 15, 2011 (UTC)

At this point I can only cringe to think what you think

All must be revealed, as this is what it is. Until I reveal myself, we’ll only bark a laugh, raise cheer, and carry on

Fire up, knives are spiking glasses tonight

People hand the strings and expect themselves to show. What a let down

Oh well. They’re boring. Everyone’s the same. I like you, I don’t like you, I don’t care about you. Categorical methods make this overly simple world all the simpler

Where else to find flare? Elsewhere. Whereever wells with which witchs will water walk wellest

There’s a broom stashed in the closet. Too easy

Sweep it all away, we’re starting over

Off the tables, off the floor, off them all

Falling off the floor. The thought has occurred before. What does it even mean?

Only now, having walked off and looked at negative space birds and such, has it struck: by some trick of the stage, the floor opens itself. But that’s falling into the floor. Unless one were to roll of the stage

How clear it is between thought which has had time to correct its past and thus imply itself and thought which streams itself along by some desperation of logical leaps in an attempt not to drown itself in contradiction. Dependency chains line up in lock step. I’ll get back to locks later

For now, there’s still more to say about brooms. That’ll come back when we get to locks

Dust and ashes or some shit oh shit I can’t write right now

Alright. Alright, oh right? You’re right

& back again. Through the floor & back again. Here I fall back there to bring back here: Esperluète. More on that later. J’espère

Que tu sois là pour moi quand je ne suis pas

Enough of that. The past couple days have been riding up on me. Vive la Francophonie

The broom is a nihilist. Which is to say we’re going back to Augustine’s definition of respecting nothing. Nothing as in no thing, rather than that thing we call nothing. English would be greatly improved to repair that deficiency in its accuracy. Deficiency doesn’t rhyme with accuracy so well. Yet another English deficiency. If only it suited my every need at my whatever moment. How clashing it is to have to exist dynamically with these static things

Whatever. The fact is that there’s this sweet little cherry on a broom. Because this is a fact, it’s been delayed to mention. Who needs to mention the facts? Facts mention themselves. As simple as this: I’m on a broom

Back to locks: She polished the broom end with hemlock mush

What a thrill to brush

Quite a rush

Much too thrush

& gone