Arugalormel Cheeli

Want doof traggos? Thinking of yube. Arbello wishes not the bebbest. Which grab dibbint you reegle. Santo break thanks to fore am paff. We are so happy to have you on the team. Since I was waiting for a place that would let me run from my own head I thought I might be interested to know that I still have to think of things as if they haven't happened yet even if a phrase rolls off so easily because it fits together so well. ANd I don't remember thinking about that dragonfly gulping down bugs, and I don't remember hearing the train go by and breaking down on the flammable railroad ties, and I don't remember an enormous wrench that rips open bolts with superhuman leverage, and I can't tell what is past the sky even though it acts like a shell and I can't leave it's hard to imagine an environment less suited for human existence than this irradiated nightmarescape. But here I take an interest in some of the things I was supposed to be exposed to, and press the mind forward a bit at a time, ignore the physical, distinguish the real from the apparent, move past the desire for music because that is strictly emotive and experiential while writing seeks to bring a balance between that an the intellectual, that balance is the strength and the key to existence free from distractions, in a library, each separate book is an anthology of the possibilities of my life, and when I pick one from the shelf I notice mistakes I have made but I feel no regret, because the page serves a purpose and the black text is substantial, and substance is all I the reason I need to exist. A while of wandering and I notice that in one room time moves so fast that my muscles creak against my skeleton and my head feels too heavy and soggy to be supported by my neck, my guts are in turmoil there until I crawl to the next room and I feel the plaque crumbling up and dissolving inside me, and flushing out in rivulets leaving the muscles clear, I watch the fluid drain away from me, reach out my finger and press bits of solid matter against the tile floor, it feels sandy under my finger when I scrape it aside, then find I can stand, and standing breathe deeper and climb to the highest bookshelf, the top of a warehouse, and dig forth, nuzzling between the ooks like a kitten into the crook of an arm, working my body, fitting between them. I can see outward now, from my nest of dark books in shadow, miles of bookshelves that curl downward at four separate points like arms of a starfish, and I am comfortable and safe in the darkness, my breathing energizing my brain, my body beginning to slide into the books, pressed between them, absorbed into them, it pinches me until I am no longer conscious and my eyeballs are pressed flat.