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Pythia de la parole

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--let not the perfect be the enemy of the good old boy wonder wall of china plate mail man made to last rites of passage west point blank paper trail of tears in rain dance battle cry like a baby blue sky high and mighty have fallen angels can dance on the head of state secret society lady in waiting for a sign of the times they are a-changing of the guard dog has his day light saber tooth tiger's eye liner notes from the underground railroad tie dyed in the wool gathering place of honor among thieves in the night light saber tooth--

a pause

--in the night of the living legend has it that in the beginning was the word on the streets run red with blood is thicker than water changes everything counts in large amounts to much depends upon a red scare off the beaten track record breaking down and out of your mind game theory of gravity well wishes were horses--

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“did you catch it? the loop. that’s what i need to know.”

“i have it. a moment . . . ok, here we go: a flaming sword–that’ll be an eviction. a predator, extinct, and a striated stone–danger in the past, and interrupted addiction. make-up over gratitude’s minutiae means masks; revolution rolled in secret aid says “rarely asks”. see, here? stability shades swiftly down into the psychedelic, and then we’re on to innate remembrance, that deterministic relic. but then . . . a congregation locked on a location–and lingering there, access to an acclamation. a fraternity, fragile, with the hasty and hidden . . . and at the last, some mitigation. yes. some small sense of safety, some soft illumination.”

“so what does it come to?” he clutches the tape like a dog with a bone.

“it’s a rough phrase. i’m wary. my reserve has its reasons.” she considers, commits. “yes, you’ll suffer in your season. but your final’s a freedom, and you won’t leave alone.”

Published inwithout center