UniqueSearchStrings replace the need for innovation in language. A compartment of UrText undivided by the curious way a dialects folds on itself. Something punctual would be nice. A shade of Mr Gray. Sand which luxuriates in soft wasp light. Tea and oranges: whose fault is it? When I look ou my window there's a waterfall of branches and cascades of leaves ululating on sighs before I'm done. UnquietSearchStrings fiber the chasms that serotonin fires across gap ventures unwritten deposit slips to currency cheque lenders cowled like sinister versioning agents. Is there a need for innovation in language? Dialects fool themselves into learning slowly these difficult things.
Clouds separate and collide w/o violence, plushily. I holds the scroll and negative bloc ologize to highlight in black around mazes white shadowed-\_\-\_\-\_\-\_\-\_\-\_\-\_\-\_\-joy. A text rises to meet it, to skate crank past as millipedinal time-flurry. A flat white sheet yearns for the hand of the glyph-master to trace an arable furrow and fill with eternal soundseeds. Dialects are the happy issue. Train requisite paint-splash of ontological orruption.
On a need-to-know basis, the disaster avalanched. Why couldn't we have foreseen The dialogical catastrophe that awaited the well-meaningest regime we'd had for a long time? We won't see its like again soon, but semantic shambles take on a sinister cant when slanted by the current see. Vector immediate see. Gimlee, frisbee, pipsqueem, Kareem.
Isbin, Hasbeen, Isbn and Hassan conversed on the ilosopher's path that bordered the meadow and the river's break. What is emerging? What is coming to be been-born? Is it our Isis, our Hebraic Yogini herself, pyxylyxing in the space between the sun and our dewed-over eyes? Our pearl-baby mother-gourd hovering between worlds? All the Isbin children, the Dubuffet cousins, scrambled to be the first to touch her outstretched hands, her ineffable smile, but our baby-mother turned into a silver-knit pouch of dew...
All does as do because did isn't thru. And died isn't through anywhere's mission near enough, a figful of thimble-fingers, noncing into the rift between air and there.
Nimble things come flinging now! Ant-hills swarm with language getting busy, why could we not have foreseen this?
A cave in Vineland opens for shelter to the myriad letters come a-courting.
WritingDubuffetsTitles | ISBN 82-92428-29-1