The Samson Complex

From E71 to N96

The backspace provides me with a symmetry unlike any other when it comes to my barber. Unwittingly transformed in terms of the face weeks back and battling it with attempts to mimic the conscript I have never been, I am also given by the Russian manning the first chair right, to the left-to-right side-parting. No bottle ever let me down, but the no. 53 in atomic numbers was no honey. Veneers can attest too. Having then my finger to pronounce the murmur of a Sabatier Lion, the cut comes as a conclusion to the lack of garlic over my front door. The people across have after all sooted their door-frame twice; you knew that. There is only so many crosses to go around! Each his own. That is one. Unless the mighty dogmas, followed by equally gargantuan banquets surround you. I am not searching for the Hemingwayian "true sentence" yet the simulacrum portrayed as synecdoche rung a bell. In the lack of a topos, Ikea proliferates, in whatever shade, technically incorrect flakes provide asylum-bound leeways, new potatoes steam your nasal hair, red plastic chairs double up as cutlery. I also spilled a whole Bialleti 4 cup pot of Fazenda Rodomunho and throttled a 2-day old router by making it aware of an arcane archive of pro-active domestic activists and trailblazers.

I need a wig.
Amen.

3:14 [4-0]

ברידערשאַפֿט Or A Commentary On The Fist.
(I would like to assure you ladies and gentlemen that you understand far more Yiddish than you think. Franz Kafka, 18 February 1912)

Computer says 'No'.

They are NOT reading us in Turkey.

The Riedel Diet

Amor Matris Alma



Dance the hours mit le diary I press the enter. 'Tis time le fou buthappy mirrored. 3 words and dent. The mutterial culture of cementary and a vie of the wet not to your eyes. Ban'ol the altes wunder. Brewn flore of the night. Not annunciation: Word. Miss the phoneme of the telephone. Zuppern hulle. Arresting the traince. A legga leck, fitted. Can this be love? Bitting the stomata, nonetheless. Chrissing at onus. Ararrete of the C:/. Holding the Co. Brak and crunch, a landenlord of Daemon grater prosoper. Two zeros. Count us. Parian scars in totemic rainheads. Sea of them, see, oh their.The soar saari soil ghostcandled. Share the wear, swear. Installments interested thy remains, conjoined leftyovers of an ad infinitum wurde road. Oat in absentia the OED. A! Ich deux potten de halibutrnezika of yawrn, Vol. 1, crystal of my cores, the lobe of lore and Danke mon broth of Y -and of Veils and Baronz- and the Holy Mary YOU are, am oarfane rye pour rip, scribblers ow!, e, ripple, RIP, my return and my benign. Rhyme. Cause the only truth. Folly. Persist.

May my eggs never brake [sic]

for earlier references see here and here