It's not surprising, but what is surprising? Indeed, what is surprise? What is? What isn't?
The future is in regard to the past, the present is of the moment, that which is of now. And now is not now yet, but now will yet be, and the now is of that moment so anticipated that when the now is achieved, it will have already been. A moment before the moment occurring, yet in that moment, which is and is not.
LULU, the great work. Within a realm that is real, a reality, and yet beyond those limits. Something yet nothing, for nothing is real, it is nothing to get crunk about. It is everything, and so, the response.
But not the response, the presponse.
Rock (and yet, why just rock?) is ingested here, pre-chewed, unrealized, reified. Its potency defies fertility, not defines it, for limitation is not of this essence.
The words, they were unknown, yet they barked, a canine grace in a feline aperture of a rodential body of an insectoid dream. The acoustic stared at the multiple. Hello, acoustic, we did not see you sitting there.
Inscribed onto a genetic code of fragmented realization, a UPC of marketing that which can't for it was and isn't and will be. We had to laugh.
It mirrored, it was one, then two, a dual strand, a single fusion, a unique gathering, a shattering of elements, a ten a twenty a nothing an infinity.
Our morality was a modernity, a ship not steered but flung into the heavens as by an outraged god, turned into a constellation of dark matter. A rough beast, belching towards Cleveland.
ILX Pre-Covers LULU.
Between bot and objection. Slime is the mire in which we turn. Cannot the wisdom of confusion bake your dome?