Kant, Kant. Limited Kant of Kant. Can’t you say more, maybe count? Not numbers. Nouns. Couldn’t calls coincide and contribute closely now? I see the whistle you’re asking for: an ounce of nouns. Wanna hear a joke? A porcelain statue of Emmanuel Kant. Contrary to popular belief, I make words whenever the walls are too steep and the cushion where you reside is a porcelain statue of—she is Emmanuel’s biggest fan, and he could tweak sorcery with theft. Don’t you agree? A physical degree of Kant. Shall I sit above sodomy and satire? Should a statue such as—copy and clone, QR reader, metal detector—that of Kant be held high by the stunned masses left aside like cricket noise that follows the quiet melodies of nightfire? Or could I stop at an intersection which is blank, shiny like opportunity and dissected in silent parts, can you feel the noise—I am a noiser—can you now, in good grammar? Meet me at the starway. Altitude is maximum and tunics for the young are made of heavy sand, hurtful flesh and sonic deafness. I stare back at the flesh that hurts. I can’t stop. I swear, you guys, and Elisa in the background of my turmoil, the insanity of slayers, the crater created by artificial bombing sequences, the serenity of rapid motion, the urge to crop old photos, the soaked stare of a pretend-Polanski. What rapid fire, what good colors. Devolving into steady stealth. Give me back my sedatives. I hardly fall into obtuse cardinality. Thermic monument to the Emmanuel—limited kind of Kant. Thermic, no: thermonuclear. Moreover, Jupiter cannot turn around like that. He really Kant. Nothing new: the hum is harmless. My fatness is complete. Payments are made of cardboard and hex. Tools wake you up, right when you catch a bit of sleep. Nice dreams can be traded off for salad and mortar. Melt down like mayonnaise and enclose the sweetness of yesterday. I get off-line threats to my life, Maya. I never talk, I never really do, but my interests morph with latency. May appear at dusk, these wishes of mine, once shared, exchanged for healing nico. You are cosmic stardom, so stay aloof. Whenever they reach for your fingers, you bite the colour they hold up like a referee’s bright-red. Take away my wrong sentences and cast the spell: You have finished the free version of A porcelain statue of Emmanuel Kant. You may now fall.

Honte, honte! Different kind of honte. Why haunt? Did you hate in pieces, interlude? Or did the haine halted—hard-wired—for a minute and cut? Can catfishing corrode cross overs, now? Quick stop: hook a juice, bruised bottle of reused booze. DRC performs surrender in three dimensions: woola, baafa, and thermonuclear. Whereas whales and wraiths fade a-ways, barklanes graciously cohort in English language. Honte, honte! Honte, Honte! What a good foreword. Waving: Hello, hello! Waving: Woah, how so? I have booked a three story building for tomorrow. We are bringing a couple of baggages and three black reflectors. The surface is facing up, lost and wide, all surrenders. Honte. Haine, blah. Barricade. Pulsar three times per minute, near the end or specifics here. To be announced at a better date. To be applauded in solitaire. My lights! Flat soda can, ah. Resorting to the haptic present tense. Cringing at the seams, the seams of Ether. Neutron, no: neuroplastic. Hop three times to get a flattened soda can, delivery excluded. Hop again to say “How long has it been?”. Hop and dance and fall on purpose, fun and safe. Seldom you get the opportunity to lie down. Shutter speed: neuroplastic. Laudate those who make on purpose. Laudate those who marry the Foxtrots. Laurette, she tossed numerics—got roasted! Haine, haine, haine. Haine and Foxtrot. Pseudo-dynamic velvet stroll. Rolling credits! Roll, roll, Rolls-Royce. Roll, The Coca-Cola Company, the October revolution, the hissing sound before going deaf, the nameless maiden gone ahead, Tiananmen deniars. The juked hope. Tiny bits of Yugoslavia in my face. Tiananmen deniars. Tiny bits of Yugoslavia in my face. Tiananmen deniars. Tiananmen deniars. The closure. The closure. An ice-white sun woke up her billion skin cells. Washed and dressed and prepped and waited by the hour, Soha whined full-lungs: “Oh deary summer song, fade it now!”. Sequenced prayers woke up neighbors, made good use of the world. Bus wrestles for stability all the time, such are the workings, and in them we break. Soha rewrote the songs I initiallized in her. Soha made them bad, made them bad songs. Then there’s the Wuca episode. I brought her favorite singer back to life, only to kill it again, one more time, only to mourn at her tides, frailed chromatic—huh, huh. Your plush has expired. Wounded by my nationhood. Booed, it’s all. Booed, it’s secure. Boom: neuroplastic phisicality. The bus stopped, broke in two, shadows sparked. It made more sense at 3AM. I have an idea: broadcasted starlights. Few tubes and jeune tropes. Prudent residue tricks you. Bob. Seven. Z. Word 1. Word 2. Word 8. Word 5. Word 4. Word 4-1. Word 4-1-1. Word 4-1-1-1. Dot. Bright side. Doctor. Dotted Dolores. Shake. Six. Number six. Number sixty-six. Six seven. Thermic, no? Twelve. Thermic? Sun Microsystems. Planet Moon. White wood. Residue. Xerox machine. Hands typing fast. The inability to type. Effect track. Pear. Paris. Hannah Montana. Microphone on. Jaguar as a car. Color black. My finger is missing, and there is blood instead. Thermic? No. Thermic? Rue de Rivoli. Indigo Martínez. Miss Crayola. Jupiter in high definition. Mars is a place, but a trademark. Soda for the heart. Apple juice. Apple juice. Apple juice. Zinedine Zidane. The mountain is outside. Rock is a music genre. Generations lost. Buy or download, that is the question. Question mark, question mark, question mark. A doctor a day takes the pain away. My hand is missing again—dammit, it feels like it. Reality. Real TV. A bee see the E if D. Ache, I: why do I see bee. Thermic? Nah. Thermodynamic? Maybe, ther-something-something. Beard on a sunday. Swine encoded, so ready to go, go. My name is written in The Coca-Cola Company. Greatest event. Three. Four. Five. Six. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Ten. Ten. Eleven. Thirteen. Fourteen. Fourteen. Fiveteen. Fifteen. Fiveteen. Fiveteen. Fiveteen. Sixteen. Seventeen. Eighteen. Nineteen. Nineteen. Twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Twenty-three. Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six. Twenty-seven. Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine. Twenty-ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Ten. Twenty-eleven. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-four. Thirty-five. Thirty-six. Thirty-seven. Thirty-nine. Thermonuclear. Thermic? Sixty-seven. Sixty-one. Five. Ten. Ten. Ten. Thermic? No. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Thirteen. Seventy-one. Five. Ten. Eleven. Twelve. Twenty-one. Thirty. Thirty-one. Thirty-two. Thirty-three. Thirty-two. Thirty-nine. Thirty-nine. Thirty-ten. Ten-twenty-thrity-nine. Nine-twenty. Twenty-one. Twenty-two. Thirty-nine. Fourty. Fourty-one. Fourty-two. Fourty-three. Fourty-nine. Fourty-three. Fourty-nine. Fifty. Fifty-one. Fifty-two. Fifty-three. Fifty-five. Fifty-four. Fifty-four. Fifty-seven. Fifty-eight. Fifty-eight. Fifty. Thermic? No. Fifty-nine. Sixty. Sixty-one. Sixty-two. Sixty-three. Sixty-four. Sixty-three. Sixty-five. Sixty-seven. Sixty-nine. Sixty-ten. Sixty-ten-twenty-and-one. Twenty-two. Fifty. Sixty-ten. Ten-nine-eleven-twelve. One. One hundred and one. Seventy-one hundred and one. One thousand hundred one. Hundred one hundred hundred thousand hundred and one. Billion et cetera. Thirty-one. Twenty-one. Twenty-I-once-was.