She has little that will prevent her from becoming that dismal and distant (no close!) realized, oh dear [oh my! I shall not say] - that whore has little that will prevent her from becoming that eventual clone, the slobbering, indeed, indeed--she is the wench, that prostituted and evaluated clown, oh, he--no she!--indeed, oh she, so mesmerized by the watch, yes, time, while it went, yes, while it went, it did go, indeed it did go from one, to two, to three, to four, yes, it did go, all around, all around, in those same fucking circles, yes, yes, she is that beastily copy, that monstrous allusion (illusion! dear mate) of course, she is but a slobbering [again with the license, brute] a fabricated whole, a visionary of description, such detail I could not possibly require, not ever demand, not upon such a soul, a sole-less itinerant - you fucking assholes.
She has little that will prevent her from becoming the recitation of repitition, of their song in her song, of her hands in her hands, of her image (her clarity) in definition of only definition of reponse, that looking glass self (dear cooley, sir), that is the imagined then relized hope, unless, against the better halves, there were a broken window (my indeed) that posited, just perhaps, that she has little that will prevent her from becoming and indeed that little is just her little chance that she herself will not be ever performing the requiem, the simple ever reminder of the life that is to be lived as suggested by the ever fruitful and once magnificent tree - that we did, upon a sand dune, give up all that we cherish, each freedom, in order (but not death! dear me not death!) to retain the peace that ours, yes ours, will not be taken.
She has little - do not tell it as it is that she has little. There is no proper analysis, no excuse, not for the social contract, lad. Do not tell it as such. We have agreed in promise and in purpose.