tres sing yours      .

in your honor, your honor.

here come you be.

-rrriii-
>but i have a space in time

and fuzzy it is. at least when i look at you, as there does seem to be three
of you at any, uh, given time.

i'd love to change the world. but. i'm stuck in the bread-section.

lisa carver is alvin lee lite.

>i have a new paragraph now because that is what you and i expect.

pardon me my oppression, police, but noti, jes seems to be what one gets.

at. times.

>i bow to crowds.

and in deed why you are so well liked.

>we are what we expect.

would that we were so pure.
neither expectations nor deeds are wholly analogous. to. what.

>we love, though, what surprises.

we love what satisfies our hopes, our unspoken faux expectations.

what surprises.

>my fragmented life is all of this.

"more" "or" "less".

>hard to recall who i knew and who i now
>know.

memory is faux. don't trust it, man, don't trust it.

>what is. what isn't. reel and unreel.

i would be faux to say you'll get no disagreement from me.

>i just feel trapped. or stuck. just lost at the bread-section. calcified
>by the surfeit of choice.

welcome home, fukuyama. tell us.

"surely" one -knows faux-, -as such-.

it is at "this time" i love you most.

>-r i am my own autobiographer i

would that one would to be so pure, buickgenomap.

we crammed seven of us in the, whadidey callit, "hoopty", i think, and went
riding. about. town. somewhat at random, although down main drags, until
summin got some bright ideas about =where to go=.

me, i did not dream of video games last night, though i heard the suggestion.
i did enough of that while waking. instead, i dreamt of moving my plates from
one kitchen cabinet to another, a feat -very well- accomplished by the time of
my reawakening.

new paragraph.

a few nights before, i had a nightmare, that i was christmas shopping forever,
unable to finish and go home, worrying more and more about my sad finances with
each new purchase.

then, the other night, when i got home, i realized i'd been wearing my
work id badge underneath my shirt to the pizza party just outta sheer habit.

a whole volume of zines couldn't satisfactorily explain
just how fucked is my job.

"i" "keep" "wanting" "to" "write" "for" "you" "a" "post" "in" "which" "every"
"word" "is" "quoted".

those poor -word perfect- readers. their expectations, what are they?

but then, more "appropriate," would be a post in which each symbol in the sign
were to be quoted.

"l" "i" "k" "e" " " "t" "h" "i" "s" "."

would be were to be.

-there- is -your- space in time.

i'm beat. i might could be more or less. today.

i was thirteen. i had my new guitar. i went for a lesson at dixie music,
which was also where the one who is not top went for same. the feller there,
whose band, ahem, the rhythm method, played at my prom, said, bring me a
record of the chops you'd like to learn. so i brought him ten years after
_live_ and wow did he groan at the mistake of a teenager caught in the
surfeit of third generation white trash blues. well, there were know sonny
boy williamson albums where i could get to them for purchase at the eckerds
in biking distance of my house, the best buy of my day. and if there were,
welp, i shouldn't kid myself that he woulda benefitted by it. sonny boy
williamson, that is. but, undaunted at the expectations i failed to muster,
i learned to play the twelve minute version of  _good morning little
schoolgirl_ at 78 rpm, nonetheless.

well. imagine my chagrin at being a faux guitarist.

at being.

i was thirteen. i had my new guitar. i went for a lesson at dixie music,
which is also where it used to oggle over the moogs with lotsa knobs,
as through they were refrigerators and i had lotsa kids. there was also
this really beat up farfisa organ for $130 that i almost talked my dad
into letting me buy with my life's savings. but then no, wouldn't let me,
coz the thing would drift in and out of tune as the it warmed up.
i really liked that part.

i was thirteen.
i had my then new guitar.
this is what i remember, what a fucker.

so there's this one alvin lee rekkid recorded with gospel singer mylon lefevre
that was fairly well situated in the then burgeoning faux-country movement.

so, she's been stockpiling these puzzle type games, which i like, coz their
question is not to kill or to be killed. and her brother, and you, who like
those kinda things, became as entranced as she and i, and some others, with
the one whose name is you-know-what-i-mean. and i'm trying to place,

-to place-, mind you,

what it is that had me so much in its grip, with such interest and appeal,
even when i was numb with post-bo-stupor headwrench. and i think it was
-the motion-, sam, that i -might control-, somewhat to my expectations
-at times-.

way to go.

a ways to go.

away, going.

if you had been in the car, it might have been more or less fun.
who's to say? as it was, i remember, it was -crowded-, even for
a big car.

well, i'd attempt to figure the juxtapostition of johnny cash and carlos
castenada in one simpsons episode but i might could leave that to peeps
who actually have something exact to say.

who's making the rules today?

who was it having the klaatu fest on xdu this morning?

3.2.3