Wednesday, January 02, 2008

Stasi Halo

Pooling resources to balance self in wind-tunnel, paying toll. Those aren't thawing details, lingering after a probable Lebanon, which I've written about on TV, but mustard gas. Increase sets in, unable to avoid breathing, where yesteryear's theatre collapses in a cloud of smoke, separating from the pipes which connect to a network of sewers. Was it every little boy or girl curled up in the fringe political group, few
would live to bed, dying for answers and waiting by the phone. Was it forbidden to give advice to every xenophobe wandering through time in a wormhole? Casting call for this year's memorabilia: you're being requested. You're being second-guessed, without friends, without a support group, a series of personnel restructurings before the licked envelope seal is pressed under the door beside the house where the journalist loses his head. Wake up to Saudis selling dessert in the cafes. If you are restricted from loving the premises, humble yourself to mob rule. A box of Wheat Thins costs more than your on-air report.

[Ad: Corsican sow twisted in infancy, belabored semipermeable sniper rifle aims at, you do or you don't go in for economy upgrading]

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