What could a fish garter ever say to the loneliest men in the tobacco cabin by the side of the road? 'I'm so fed up with microscopic particles entering my nostrils,' it might say, but then again we are here to clear the beer. It's the last night for the open bar in the neighbourhood so you can forgive us I imagine for our lack of consideration. We are not easily amused, you are not so easily confused for the mixing and the masterful cremation libations proferred by the centaur men in their gigolo contraptions selling Klondike receptacles like the tallest most impressive stacks of potato chips in the burgundian wine factory. I was a midget who couldn't be conquered.

"A blind man walks into a bar" --that's it; that's the joke.

we freak out like fireflies lighting their rumps by any light touch, we beasten ourselves into the roadside firewalking talk-snorter delirium. I was ketchup in another life, I was slapped on my glass ass and held upside down until i leaked out with my essences.

I was perhaps the best person ever to walk into the woods. Here is the wriggling mortar sandstone joint, and I needed to cross the ocean in the middle of the night. I was flat like the globe, I was all around in every crevice. I was a field hand and I drank root beer on Sundays.

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