The meaninglessness adrift, and left against the pier, bang, bang. She was an enormous woman. The final analysis, perhaps determined to be the ultimate and inevitable outcome of incessant failure, listed the only options of lucrative trajectories into three categories--none of which (given the overall saddened state of his popularity) cited unknown yet aesthetically and surely spiritually relevent roles. Not even as a reference or an inspiration. The market leaders were unamusing sorts. She was the largest of them and she was a pig. They are sponges, she says. At least, I think, I am quite sure it is she who says it. Or she is quoted.
But as an aside, let us note: the authentic writer is not amused by the ill state of affairs, the unconvincing realities pursued, and the dismal betrayal of the animal, the fluid animal, or the unfettered man. There is only sincerity and dismissal and in perpetual oscillation, they do cowher, as such in dreams and in attics (though given hold of such castles in the fabrications of one tangible, one realized, one won and lost world) or fail to expose themselves to outward outlaws even formal investigations. It is an unamusing mass of exiles, amidst the only ever conforming, the only possible and passable conformists, unequipped to fathom the thought or the complexity of inadequate interaction, feeble sight, a glimpse (of ever knowing) that theirs, alas, is only the monster.
In lesson only it is their dismissal. Care kindly for the self and for the family, such holidays as those bring such joy to the desconstructionist, but only on those days is he in charity, is she in charity, for on other days, the days that do go and do not split, they are building walls that are so tall I wonder, unless she is a monster, what they might possibly want to keep inside.
It must be a monster. She is so tall and she lives in a place that is so guarded. She must be a monster. He, too, must be a monster. We should not let them out. Ha! The world in charity, again. And we would not write from dismissal.