Some Time Outside

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Before all the Bay City Bombers got married

"My concern isn't history or place, it's sense and non-sense, place and placelessness, the known and the unknowable," Frank said.

The third of the first of the second within a minute, when time makes a graveyard for thought and its thinking.

Memory sits gilded, up from the funnel-shaped vent beside us. But instead of and's and or's, they reside inside it, where there were four little blobs of light. Greens and reds
were very much in order, which gives us the sweet pleasure of waking.

Deeply appreciated, after a last whistle of wind and crash of thunder were manufactured quite widely for the industry of time.

It is an anthropology of knowledge, which is what attracted me to the service; its downfall had been an accident.

We blocked and grabbed and it was still a couple of our days away and not worth waiting for. At least, enthusiastically, what with our medication that begins to override our pain and deterioration with age.

"Horse, but no rider," I said.
"Families?" she asked.
"Reasonable," he said doubtfully. "But what are we doing?"

At a shoe exhibition, we were being grated together, like the leather and metal of the shoes. Her best shoes contained projectors of molecules without a visible source.


Him bit-wise, unaware of the sarcasm in the Koran, those before the pool in the middle of a desert.

She had the switchboard butt to broadcast the deception of the possibility, an ass and more in pure beauty.

Its sees to retain and clothe, but some not to drain, its crossbow, its dessert, its task, all a lanced infection to placate his mother, see?

Rampant truancy at the stationery store; they were all centrist on behalf of some goose-lord, who made his money on berry-wine and imports from Chine, his wife, Candace from Czechoslovakia, always said he invented the halide and pulse-current electricity. It betrays, sees livestock in some delicate sage, sees pockets in alleyways, a pint swapped between lovers.

1 Responses to “Some Time Outside”

  1. Anonymous fanuma 

    Dear Frank --

    The Booker is the most important prize in the English. English is the most important language in the world. Why did you say this?

    Paul Constant is a critic/god. He is the Edmund Wilson of the Pacific Northwest. A flannel Edmund Wilson, if you will.

    An explanatoin is required.

    Your Fan,

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