Friday, 5 February 2010

S.S.M.J.N. - # II (Sister Story To Miss January Nineteenth)

Part II

She knew the score. Ask her. She will use the fill option of eyes for you to see said score...ZERO. This was a positive development (lacking + attribute). Nothing hung in the balance +/- . The lack of tension was gripping. No one could be synched even in this mindspace eddy born of a full moon tide. A graveyard of life. The victims of competitive contrast got character assassinated every minute. The lives of the unacknowledged felt somehow dead. She would have to explain herself further, she knew, or else risk hospitalization. 3 hots a shrink and a cot seemed an upscale place to reside versus the communique vacuum that needed not to suck!

She still looked hot even with her upper body hunched over a desk in the corner of some wooden room, submerged into sleepless ink splashes of fanciful rhetoric. This was getting heavy like her heart. She had just found the perfect analogy for zero, to explain to all those expecting something so long as it was not nothing. All those left in the high & dry communique gap. Ciudad De Juarez was evil enough to cross her mind, for a place. She could use this to describe the impasse that had grown up between them so horribly like choking weeds. Just north of Chihuahua dogs eyelids are traded for higher consciousness and a nervous disposition, she inked. They walked through life eyes wide open; this made them all nervous - what they saw. She stopped. the ink collected under her smile in its extension.

She even had a knot under her left collar bone. well, it was always there, just now made itself known. Ambulance chaser of knots! she cried out. O why did i not choose the hots with the cots? Some dreadful emotional thinking? of saving lives despite going off the road just considering it? saving minion asses from character assignation of code? What a drama, what a screenplay. Do we wanna claymation anime? Red hot. Like they want it. Fashion divas out to flaunt it. Her Judgment ran over herself and all minions. god is dead! said affected might work for a fill-in. Good option, the heresy, when all else might fail. Like she felt of herself the day she got thrown in jail.

We never tire of her, her suffering intrigues us. We search her real thorough like planets for water. If we find what we are looking for, it must be administered intravenous. The arteries are softened like the setting of the sun. Linear without intricacy is how their creator apparently created them. The venous system nearly surfaced,a complicated procedure. Like rolling the R off your tongue when you mouth misdemeanor. Oh jail, see her mind was fine tuned there, she sometimes spaced out with a soft focused wall stare. Where would she go then? Where people they stared at you. You stared back at them, so many stares to contend. One stared in the mirror at self just to see, you see. The mirror was created by internal means. Everyone knows theres no mirrors in jail, no one seen. But she kept it to herself. Her cell reverie plus mirrors. When she went cellular, things changed. Not just the angle of light over time. Something much deeper, to which she resigned. Communique got defragged or loosened out of her knot. No further levels detached could she go. She had attained the isolative status of a quarantined nun. In the social stratosphere she gained the status marked 'done!'

In this extremity of mindbody disconnection, developed a sea change! embodiment of form. media would spin it as a kind of formal ressurection. But no wonder shes untouchable! this wild girl we see. half drooling in a corner of some wooden sea. she has subtle fashions of making her point. In zero land she floated this explanation point. Parentheticals gave way to solid ground, concrete with a point. She knew shit now she had never known. If it was late nineteen eighties she would have rocked the microphone. The plants in photosynthesis share her knowing, so full grown...