no, not any of us is unfed

The dim and realized failure, far from ignored or neglected, resolves itself to complete and entitled success--capitalized, determined. The man, himself, is unnoticeable, uneager, resigned. It was, at last, then, removed and insignificantly hyped, turned into an opera, a posted and reviewed one man suggestion. He is, of course, a single man, harbored by his insecurity, a cove of sorts. The usual back and forth discourse concerning the relationships of objects of animals and indeed (at least lately) of furniture has required a modern approach to lifestyle. He may no longer, so coyly as his presentation permits, act studiously uninterested.

Further insight into the depressive state, as dictated by the imaginative and spiritually homeless man, is useless, vague. She is a woman of character and wealth and promise. A woman of property, of renewed vigor. A fictitious widow. There is but the lingering denial, so aptly cornered in her skirt, in her manner of astute address. Yes, she is to be sought and un-ignored while her counterpart and deceased yet ably mobile partner is loosely morbid, depressed. He is depressed, my dear. The early state, of which he would later mock as overwhelmingly simplified and exaggerated, was morning cocktails and afternoon naps. Later, as justified by the Star, he was neither malingering in his love for puppets nor manipulative in his abuse. Both were straight forward, given, granted, stated and never modified nor justified.

It is never decidedly inclusive to casually suppose the martyr, the woman of property so eagerly consumed by the spiritual indigent. Her romance and her disposition demand necessity in the communal survival, indeed the collective church: the social configuration of this state. Oh, she exclaims, heartily, eagerly, modestly, this is most exclusive. No, no, he was not ever truly unsettled or discomforted. No, not any longer--you see, there are no friends any longer.

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