This is Time. Time looks to the left but doesn't see Big Ass Asteroid shooting fast and getting big and bigger. Weiners are for copulation. In a small private dim bathroom, Time shoots electric piss into a crappy toilet bowl. Bits of bright red meat squeak between 17 pearly gross teeth. Time sits like a lady on an insane white bed beside the Huge Love-filled Window. Time goes for a damn walk like a busty Jew, when Hollandaise rubberneckers gawk from the stony water fountain. Cellulose phosphorous teams against the nitrogen and oxygen soup that spills through us and Time, making little girl neurons jump like boys on bobcats in the swampy neighborhood of potential ideal recognition. Time slips up at roofing a mad house living in TV superstar body images. The sky lemur shoots his gigantic black furry tail down to the earth and decrees, "You are fired, young Time!" Time sits still on a woody beam twelve feet above the floor. Orbs of H(subscript2)O tap on each square inch of existing matter in a 2,140 feet radius of Time. Time sees less and less, as photons recede into deep space and into Time's viscous vision spheres.
Here we are, alone. The time raptors tear our global feet into internet-based, pan-seared tropical vegetables. Time spares and separates a grumpy munky from living too long on a desk made for Latina businesswomen in the 2040s. Safe sex is not for Big Ass Asteroid. Destroying life models is fun for a while but not for Time. Likable grass surfaces eat plain pita. Time plans on having every fourth grader out for learning practices. The schedule in corrected. Super burgers are good life achievements. You, know? Some times look forward, but behind the seeing cubes a trite fortune corpses toward slight speculation and infinite dissonance.
Kinda The End.
Love, greg
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