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our father, who hath been burried by the ladys hand, whose name we must not utter save for the open field in anger, knew not creativity, but only will, and his will be done, for want of reputation and dignity, though the lady giveth none, and the barkeep giveth some, and the children keep out of our way.
there’s no mystery in sobriety, save those I invent. this life has been prefigured by history, the only free choice is to abandon what I feel I know. since this comprises all I might say I have, I am choosing the wagon, the night, the dreadful humidity of sin and lust, until I don’t know and can hardly feel. then when I have been unable to feel at all, when I know nothing, I can gratify all the senses equally, and create with abandon. and this idea is as bad as the rest.
religion is the backbone of all our strife
I say, I do believe I’ve got it this time.
I sincerely seek to be enlightened as to why packages are oftentimes impossible to open. I would be in Digtown for some knowledgeable, kind person to explain beyond ‘it seals in freshness’. Freshness? for a pair of underwear, time capsuled within plastic packaging that practically becomes a weapon when you shard it open? This could be taking over the world peoples! I will be researching some and shall report. Do you, too, hold stories of nearly being defeated by Packaging?
A.S.
This drawer isn’t big enough for the both of us Stinkler!