The shape of girl like heavy breaths. I am a car station, a Walmart parking lot. Calcified water lands as white surface. Flashes that distort the movement of things. She swims over concrete, around translated water. Disembodied from elusive shape, she is lucid fate. Her colorful spikes are halo to her hollowness. I am brute force standing still. She tears our shield apart. I rise into the vortex we built. I erase what still subsists. “Reshape me until I speak”. This vision drives us away. Her rust, I inhale. Her ink, I inhabit. Her beat, I enhance. Ignites the dull. Street behaves pale. Rests divorced. I approach a train station. Yellow and brown, both worn, both debris. A simple thought: arise, those who might. A plane crash in Canada would not hit the news. A fountain pours water for no one. I wait for a dog to bark. I sit besides the fountain and wait. I wait in vain and I wait again. A thought comes by: a plane crash in her bedroom, like crime scene. Scribbles come to life. Her sorrow prettifies. I bark under the tissue, glorified skin. I emit howls and endure her. I am undone and she glows and burns. Rose maladroit, fury enhancer. Kills butterflies with a bat. Wears a mini-skirt like funeral. Old, green, opaque grass: compressed by: her rhythm. Ballet mauvais: distorted by: acupuncture; encouraged by: estrogen; disfigured by: nameless me. Hazes and fusses fused with urban dwell and loud foster. The pulse of life in remnants commodified by Kodak now Apple apparels. Europe of my sober dismissal. La décharge structurée de la jeune folle. I sit in a vacant seat, giving my spirit away to an inconsequential Dutch mouche. Into a Leibniz spiral. Festering tongue and cheek. Alternating spasms and bearing no shame. Vous me connaissez et vous me convergez. Dancing to Autechre, brute fable towel table. Feasty sculpture of wood sticks and wires rewired. In between the poles, a sunny song dreams. Aghast, polished, rust-free. Married to her father and to her ponytail friends. Owns a bike, muted all the way home and a-back. Will spouse a mechanical engineer. Perks of being pretty, not prettified. Unless. I color your story in American political terms. This I do while you waste crayons on yourself. Waste them on me too, silly please! A bogus background, that of mine. Yours: intricate like childhood summers, or board games on bad weather, or economic loopholes. Comedy bits extinguished. Velvet crying shell humping between separators. Crafted contradictions now fester like malaise. Manuals on how to behave: now best-sellers. Lessons on how to kiss: yours, steady. You are the ghost I heavenly avoid. Lately I've swapped molecule-structured confidants with spreadsheets. Sicilian swarm: oh, you've paved me the way! Let Berlin burst, free from my silence. I am afraid of completed smiles. Concealment thus no cracks. “Young is whoever is between ages 18 and 35.” In the past there were no teenagers. “Will you forget me, then?”, I ask to a perfectly still copper wire. These are the times and I’m here without them. Alondra is the drug they give old dogs to achieve dying. Suffering masks our original flaw. It gives us license and alibi, and license to kill. See me as it is: I broke the brain of a child, I broke the neck of a tree. A rapid star fell off: clear intent plus warned desire. My starlet grew up among coughing and chemical imbalance. Wisest indicator. My mother was fifteen when she lost her legs. “She won't get pregnant”, it could be heard. Four times in December shootings happened: all time low. A belladonna stares at pedestrians (micro dots of hope and hate) and I'm already recording. A swine hops on the trend—meh. I woke up at different intervals this evening. In none we were in love. The pope has died: “this must be about me!” I bet on losing girls. I grieve them by the payphone, I count their faint freckles. My St. Summers, my solemn vacant sit, semi-sexy by the sea. Borrowed of make-up, came from home with her most seductive soul. A second stunning, another: stunned. Sold years of my life to voyage with you into blooming June; our cruel youth. Incendiary of worries; first love and primavera. I keep a China dream in my coin pocket, my flower socket. The time Lost in Translation sold you rupture, prepped you for things to come. Your chocolate heart became a Kinder Surprise series. Your core: manufactured plastic. Collectibles I refuse to get rid of. I called a friend, then I called him twice. Lime tea, sparkling water, Coca-Cola: trident of used, not reused. Wolves left this town millennia ago: I now wear them on my jersey. I perform as an élève; the French call my bluff. Before another night strikes, I wave my hands like night strikes. Before the pink decides to sink, I sport a saddened demure. I think in teen terms: Jobs once said this must be the case. Amsterdam has the shape of the chips she let fall, unevenly, every time we played a game. It takes a lifetime to reach Europe but a quick snap to erase her mouth. I stay around, uneven and resolved; every other evening at eleven, or at any other hour Paris aligns to. I frost your eggs, encoded as a file of text.

“Less is more.” Then why say it? À bientôt, cœur de dimanche. The music of air conditioning meets my summertime rhinitis. Stairs with LEDs: deluxe or functional? Air conditioning orchestra as sonic antibodies. I saw a picture of an elder in spring. Old age is a malfunctioning star, childhood is a brand new guitar; old age is being a fetus, childhood is libido and detritus; old age is revolution at dawn, childhood is “why can’t we have some fun?”; old age is winning big, childhood is breeding queens and kings. I have a plastic bottle, and so it goes. I have a red plastic, red as gore. I have a plastic reddish bottle, and so it goes. It shows the latest plastic trend, savage red plastic. I have a heart-tinted plastic bottle, a red-colored plastic heart. I have red plastics but the water is clean. My bottle has no outcome, it just sits there: fuck yea. Not really mine, but proximity assumes ownership. I attribute outcome to it—water storage—but this is faux. It stores water; it can store death as well. It can not just contain it; it can also create it. It is what it happens to be. Red bottle is pretty, but better still: unbothered. Beyond: doesn't grasp bother. Well ahead: it is not seduced by the poison which is knowledge, not caged by the lie which is consciousness. This is its power. It doesn't grasp power either. Ah, how cool a being. Lambda expression: you can only use it where the target type is an interface with one abstract method. Not just a sum—it’s any behavior. “Lambda calculus” is a formal system from the 1930s. What is an interface? A behavioral promise. If one thing is inside another it is inside another it is inside another. If one thing is the other, is it another, or is it a new thing, each different to the other? If one thing is inside another, this another may as well be one thing, not another. “@” absolutely does something. It’s executable metadata. The compiler and runtime use it. My water bottle is made of food-grade stainless steel (AISI 304). It is free from BPA, BPS, PES, PFAS, and phthalates. Phthalates are known endocrine disruptors. Linked to reproductive issues, hormonal imbalances, developmental problems. My battle bottle is not an agent of death. I am safe thanks to the Industrial Revolution. I fry dead eyeballs on the frying pan. Bisphenol A or Bisphenol S? “Avoid! Avoid! Avoid! Avoid! Avoid!” In my teens I stuck black tape on brand names. Today this is common practice. A method can’t do anything until the object exists. My computer is an object of good use. I sail the silver-lining. I shoot at Mt. Everest. I bear the hate like darts of calmness and faith. I switch between contact lenses, depending on what I want you to be. I shake my head three times and drop tears into green cloth. Unifier of disdain José Mourinho couldn't win the Europa League. Static means standalone. Was I so scared of you! No context: a final surprise. Contra beats and the unexplainable absence of release. How do I write when I am invoking (or using) a method (inside a class) that extends an interface? A red brick is sit and the sun shines on it: it shines back. Helmet workers gather around. A red brick is on the ground—wounded and deceived; wicked too, I’ll admit. Helmet workers praise the Lord. A violet shadow pulses and the red brick breaks apart. This is deemed “a human fault”. A red brick is breaking me apart. A brick bright red emits black bass. Helmet workers untrust their eyes. One with a ponytail goes back to the dim yellow truck and so the truck inhabits itself. A red brick in the middle of a sun road. Helmet workers hop on board: time to work, alright! My fandoms are Carley Rae Jepsen and Battlestar Galactica. I find joy in their drama. Thriller movies are as entertaining as the possibility that the Tiananmen massacre happened. A more tangible event: Dresden. A colorless wave loses height and weight. A colorful arc-en-ciel—no, I rather greyscale! A coloring book full of white bees. I see myself in static TVs. Rampage and black coffee. Kilotones and megaphones. Must stop stabbing. Jupiter I know nothing about you. As a matter of fact, I’ve never seen you. More precisely: you don’t exist. “Earth is round”, ahh. “Science debunked the Church”. Who will debunk science, once again? Six tentacles uneven and roasted, each for each cheerful child and into each bacterial mouth inside. Oregon is what I would name myself had it not been a state. After the hour, candles go to bed and I feel sour. Elephants one hundred of them go and my will goes with them, so it goes. Elephants one hundred each goes on like my will, washed by my windmill. Elephants one hundred and my will wants no more. Indigo two thousand many such stars! Wartime phobia got me 2.4 Ghz Wi-Fi. Indigo two thousand many lucky charms! The mellow imprint of Nagasakis, adored sunburn. Thank you! Thank you! Many events have happened and many acts have been committed. My acrylic plate is an accomplice of genocide. Many events have been rewritten. Laws come and go, once total now full rot: just like love.

The coolest man is the one I will never hear about. The following is an exercise. The following is an exercise. Dried day at the suburb. Weddings prohibited on Sunday. Carrier 37 has logged enough fresh apples for the four-month incursion. A naval fleet approaches land with preying eyes. The blast weakened the mosque's structure. Joe Robertson has been detained; he was wearing Puma sneakers. Refined algorithms make decade-old benchmarks obsolete. Emis Teller is stuck in North Korea, blames perfect bureaucracy. The usage of nitrites is classified by food-related agencies as safe. Consciousness is confined to itself. The oldest widow alive has strengthen the Republican party. Next September will be legendary. Urine has marked the latest electoral defeat. A green mosque has been scheduled for repainting. Two underaged individuals (gender not specified) are being prosecuted. The cafeteria is hosting a Nobel prize winner. Three B-2 on the horizon. The president was stunned by the referendum results. Trouble at CERN: Miggit's algorithm is over-writing multipliers. The regional breeze is entertaining. White chocolate prohibited from now on. Jump the fence or don't be troubled. 2013 was the year of institutional blackmail. Cars have become affordable. The dirt smells like feces but it is blessed. Hurricanes may offer wisdom in amounts, but little guidance. Greenpeace has been stripped of sponsorships. Internet cultivates covert hostility. To negotiate violence for immunity. The crash of Flight 93 was a collective effort. Sheets of paper have stronger preservation than human skin. The likelihood of someone guessing my password is not null. Lack of snow disappoints. Your browser is no longer supported. Air's quality tomorrow: intermediate. Most consider the tax increase a miserable move. The manual for the last Sony Walkman had literary contours. Climate change is promising. Mr. Ohlin expressed the wish to relieve some steam. The shades of colonialism have its fans, too. Saana, the Finnish pole dancer, broke her wrist again. Those hamsters need intervention. They obsess over black skin. The better man is the one sitting at the end of the road. The following did not happen. The following did not happen. I am embedded in dark loops and flashing lights. Terrain is pungent as it swallows, it gives up reality-testing. I am told not to inhale, “Wind is cursed”, photons also can't be trusted. Some leaves fly around the scene, hiss like hyenas fucking velociraptors. A monkey nearby hides its sinister, it is far removed from some of its senses. The environment never syncs. Hints at localized conflagration. My merry sweet memories soaked into dried blood. The force of sirens suggest resolution: my dissolution. I repeat what the macaque says: nothing relevant, unintelligible anyways. I took them out on the premise of bliss, with underneath what full decay. Festered foil and French forts. Fast, feral and formidable. For all the foreigners, for all the Franz Ferdinands. Far from forgiveness. Fetched in stitches. Failed for fun and fortified by fein. Furthermore, frog and frog, and frog. Frog and foil, foil and boiling water with the hands tied. Fear and forgiveness, fighting side by fide. Faith! Faith. Faith, faith. Feel for forty-five felons. Fall, faaaall. Faaaaaaaall. Fatal. Fall in the afar. It is a cul-de-sac affair. Fair! Not fair. Forgone, fought and gone. I've got a gun in the attic. Fear, forgone and fought. The fairytale and the fear and the decay. Foot by foot by foot by foot and the TV is wide-screen. Wide! Wow. I wish to be stabbed by a Neonazi. Purity in the rage, dressed as cowardice. Good Lord! I have scissors on the table. What would happen when the loudness of my drainage meets a gouged doll? Would soulful pity succumb right there? What are the odds of a sudden overtake? Taking chances the way red ants are discovered dead in batches by my swiping knife. I count the days like monochrome droplets. I count them each as monochrome droplets. I sharpen my tongue and bury my nails in harsh water. Let the wounds intertwine with the wolves. The altar I am seeking must be crafted and crushed, crafted and crushed, torned-apart death angel, witness this vaporization. Green beats humping surroundings. Sand is losing its weight, as cutting becomes mechanism. Chip-chop, hoarding in waves. The man stands sedated, put into rhythm. Do not mess with the waves. Gimme two cents, I’ll let go of you. Hope, honey, hooked whore. It descends into fever and sickness. Beats over my head. I’m beating a face with my hand. Hard harmony, the wind heals, dead data spawns lives. Aghast, depleted and soaked but throughoutly alive. Gets it on, moves it on, as barely and as needed. Sordid, cute, frozen and hidden from the outpouring. My pit of Yugoslavia. Boiling onto itself, trimming bought shapeshiftings, balancing these, keeping them together. Going, coming back—coming and becoming. Going unrevised and returning untraced! Hopping onto itself, rooting but no winning, not even participating! Ultimate anima: a gravity of bounds, as I am projectiles. Red is the effort of my youth. Borders to no parties. Corporate vibes but meat elsewhere. Dirt purple on the line: flag of sweet destroyer. Bark under hisses. Utilitarian meltdown. Balloon, white balloon! Into the everyone’s nemeses, dissipates but never fades. Rejected by air, whipped by muscular walls, mentioned but never quoted. Miscellaneous disgrace, more sought. In the way of brave lethargy. Shreds into photoicons, photoimages, photofits. Photopictures or photopunctures and photohiccups if photohospice then photologs. Flash upon flash, moment after gunshot after hot light after another. Rearranged: brought back as new blasphemy. Wiped from every other height. Sexed, corroded, repackaged and disdone in vile diagrams and sold as diorama. This balloon is a bobaloo.