Tom Ramcigam (magicmarmot) wrote,
Tom Ramcigam

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Nothing is as what it seems.
Floating face down in the talent pool. Curustacean zimbabwe addiction. Frothy milk fuzz, glamour indicates the recalcitrant otter.
Calypso music invigorates the spinal junction, calculus upon his bones shining in the effervescent sunlight.
She waits effortlessly, timeless in the glowing fertility, the juncture of her thighs wet with anticipation. Lust it seems is like a good dairy product, envious and likely made in Wisconsin.
Cannibals cream of children soup and baby back ribs. Dose the elephant with enough to tranquilize a hippo, hippie, hippocampus, campus security, securities and exchange comission, comissioner gordon, gordon lightfoot, football, balloon, loony bin.

If you are reading this far, you should not be expecting linearity. My mind is disconnected from reality in a way that I can't predict, and I'm pretty much just typing stream of unconsciousness.

Delctable surprise. I don't want to face my desire. She sets me on fire with a love so cold she melts ice. The antarctic is colder than the arctic, likely because the antarctic is over a land mass rather than ocean. Penguins are greasy if cooked improperly, but they taste a lot like duck. Smart and capable as well as beautiful, I'm not used to that.

I'm angry and she's nice. I'm ugly and she's beautiful. I'm unstable and she cooks.

A tree branches, splits off from its main trunk. That branch in turn branches off ad finitum until a terminus ends in a leaf; but the leaf begins it's own branching down to the level of the individual cells. Each year the leaves die, but the tree merely sleeps to wake again in the coming spring. Failure tastes like old chocolate.
Tags: writing

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