These are love lines in notes I wrote categorically actually. (1) What is it you are.

By not having had it. Wash its comfort from us.

(2) Associate degree in pedantry grappling.

All my answers have the rings of gongs. Ashtray skirmish argues against the morning’s hue.

(3) Glue your shit together & make the spreadsheet. Righted boats still bloat & waters have grave written all over it. Morose she wails on & knows the morrow justifies tonight’s fancied flights. (4) Throttle then yr body back, let not its sex glare light that blinks us blind. Trot simpering amid the blurry barrios, scrim’s glint refracts another stupid sunset.

Unpack tarball to administer the compiler, as each arroyo a clastic pore cast in time. (5) Speak clearly about the impact of her death on your work productivity. What is it that separates our desire to solve problems and our love of being puzzled? Lucid dreaming is nothing more than an invention of the wakeful mind’s imagination. (6) Pock-marked and grizzled, grey streets, emancipated trolleys raging from their rails. In a fog of haste, nearly sprawled upon the dais, grill lattice brand seared upon his skin. Vise grips, bone splinter court press, blessed forward with unassisted goal capitulation. (7) Eye grain. Use stent.

Aw shit. (8) Soliloquies were sent in the morning mail.

Subtle bloodbath appreciation society. Battle of maraschino.

(9) Where was it you were. Will its warning to us.

For not being at it.

(10) Ass-kicking dervish growls a ghost’s immoral blues.

Elicit some heat in the redundancy circuit. Walled-in prisoners sing of wrongs. (11) We were once our own heroes. People always regret what they had wanted badly enough to think it. Especially when the winds’ve turned, and then the pressure points the sailor to shore. (12) You can yank your own sword out of the rock, don’t get me mixed up in this. Sick of the anarchists and their stalwart commitment to archaic media. A cook’s kitchen, cock’s pigeon, clock’s pendulum. (13) You can survive this, but only long enough to name the species of remorse

Felled trees fluster the aerial maps, dot margins with sawdust spray. Cum-stippled laundry improves the panoramic regard.

(14) Left without so much as saying at least some sorta good-bye. Around about then the attitude barometer broke & no one applaused. Scarfed down another last supper, spread good cheer with a dry-wall knife. (15) Graded hedges sculpt a new methodology of sell-out semantics. Frown vendors encamp in the city center, bout refs honk shrilly into the night sigh. Hold her not with your arms but w/ the weight of what decay’s been staved off another day. (16) Dilettantes destroy what the autodidacts enact.

Vertical attitude slip sends elevators reeling. We built this city on shock and awe. (17) I am finished with you yet. Shallow thoughts flit thru the filter.

Don’t throw the baby out with the blackwater. (18) I am not your patsy, I am an own man. Heads-up video displays the current range depleting. If cars scurry then cinderblock waltzes. (19) Dildo head-bob. Selective disservice. Stubling one’s jawline.