Lean me into your dextrose cooing. What I have learned, paratactically, in the machine, cognates turning against each other. I feel your wheel me in me. Think of in me then this way or don’t. I or you or otherwise. While you were weeping, I was made into a weapon of mass insurrection. We could isomorphically be on purpose–like all flour–floural. Show some impathy for chrissakes, when in rooms, do as rumors. I heard you could be mine or mind or mined ore mined ore mind mined. I can see by your hands you are right for me, but wrong is the new right. Let’s sit on it awhile, an eggland’s best impression of an egg. Now I am too big to flail. Now I am for your enjoyment. Now I am your Kierkegaard. Where is my gadflyswatter? I may think of you so often so off then is my thought. My idea of you completes you modally. For example, your nevus is where I’ll keep all my notion of beautiful error w/r/t mapping the inside vertically. Vertiginous love works in our favor, as long as our blindspot is all below us. When I look down I see you look down and say Don’t ♥ w/ yr eyes. Up eyes up, where there is nothing to see nothing. For nothing is my love. Ash tree to ash tree, dust bowl to dust bowl, thou shalt return.