Code haunts me as I try to sleep through myself. A documentary or a zoo for Microsoft. The depths of me groan into immaculate thin tissue because Mary sleeps nudely perfect, reflection. Cells. I’m bent by pills and weed into. The dew pushing up from the head of my cock solemnizes between mellow tonal, cordial remote. I have to think about language now, and cannot be bothered by LOWERCASE. Language now windows it, or language now engineering renal cork. The legalities of sleeping on your face are hardly darker before the dawdy and inept penalties leveraged on our german brethren.

I’m stained in segments. I’m probably concious of the fact that this is a time-based art, and drilling down bastard sunshine of raw leaves. All ruddy and stuck on the customs of mother alabaster, sabbatical reader, thinking about language now and unwilling to be bothered; you pause at the door, a juicy wedge of audible sunshine burning your way home and across this dim room. “You didn’t have to be so rude.”

“I wasn’t aware I was being rude.” Carrying those dead babies to the river, maybe wash unconciousness from their delicate blue skulls.

She was always keenly aware of signs and wilderness. “I think the GOVERNMENT is building something over by the Drug Mart.”

“Why are you bothering me with this? Why can’t you see I’m thinking about language?”

A documentary about software, subtitled entirely in LOWERCASE. Eventually she moved away, and I sat on the curb, tears stinging my eyes, as the men in sterile lyric rentals lifted their endtables and their books and heaved them into the van. I guess I should just get it over with.