from Proton's Dream
by Ariel Monet
The language is in the proposition. This is not a mathematical formula. We can see this in the coloring of a sound like red. If you were to assume that the color red, sounding like nonsense, but still transmitable via progressive stream technology, were to validate the disconnect by pre-existing as a marginal influence in the way the words transcribed themselves over the fiber optic wireless remote purely enhanced with nutritional bran name identities flowering in role-playing modules never before seen in telephonic communication, you would then hear the colors dreaming more dialogue stated and intended to be virulent in their disinfection.
The style writing is different than the semantic self-presence of woven differences manifesting themselves in lineal acrobatics but without the perversion of print to dilate their pupil effect. Without any chance for investment. Unless something gets marked as necessarily nodal in its doubtless sensual preoccupation.
This would break down the staid confection of the candied apple dressed in corporate gear. She would simply commit to a certain alterity. And in this confusion of undressing herself before the boss the came in, would allow the rulers to enter.
"This could be negated by lifting your fabric higher."
"Okay, but I'm not sure it'll work unless I put my shoes back on -- they make me hotter."
"Hotter. Better prepared to locate an ideal site."
WRITING OVER THE INSIDES OF LANGUAGE
The language is in the phenomena. This is not a rhetorical formation. You can see this in the sound of a color like red. If you were to assume that the color red, sounding like itself but with a unique infection attached to its own red-space, were to transmit optical allusions via progressive stream technology, were, in fact, to validate the disconnection from memory by pre-establishing a condition similar to the one meta-morphed by various marginal influences expressing themselves in the way certain words transcribed themselves over the fiber optic wireless remote, you would then see the sounds being more caring and meditating in a constant state of vaginal discomfort.
The style warning differs from the semantic self-presence of woven differences by manifesting itself in lineal ambition but without the perversion of more, of more drilling into the pupil-effect. Without any chance for survival. Unless something gets masked as wounded self-recovery or ergot occupational forces like student-teacher relationships.
This would break down the steady development of the curated dream walking around in a corporate sponsorship that defies all rules.
She would simply commit adultery.
And in thus confusing the issue of herself before the losses came in, allow the rulers to enter.
"This could be nocturnally born. A mere fabrication."
"Yes, but I'm not sure it'll sell unless I lay on the floor-- it makes me look flatter."
"Fatter. Better be prepared to locate the entry point."
WRITING OVER WRITING OVER
The language of the proton. This is not a decaying formation. I can see this in the structure of a story like red. If you were to assume that the story red, writing itself in nothing but red although processed with a unique invention transferred into its own red-space, were to protrude optimum allocations via progressive stream technology, were, in fact, to validate the disproportionate numbers generated from artificial memory, you would then see the stories being more pronounced and mediating in a constant rush of electrical discharge.
The protophyte warnings distill organic self-perseverence by manifesting a lineal ambition but not without the perquisites of more, of more drilling into the preferred apparatus of discovery this language of proposition proposes to make. Its only chance for survival. Unless of course something goes wrong and the investigation is grounded in self-recovery or repair-mode.
The investigation can break down the story development causing words to administer pain in a corpse-like spectrum that defies all gravity.
Denies all death.
And in this denial the issue of herself coming in, before the losses, as she wallowed in the meretricious world of the make-up jungle.
"This could be nothing but heavenly flight."
"Yes, but I'm not supposed to do this with you -- it makes me nervous."