“Propaganda”, the man in the corner spoke. The streetlight glancing off his glasses spun small sparks in the dark of the glass cube. Faced with the prospect of losing another argument his mustache quivered with every other drag. Maybe a smile forming in the recesses of his whiskers, the cynical bastard. Cool girl Eighties pageboy hair bothers for a second. Cast-off fatigues with duck print camo nonchalant dust with fine flicks of ash. Dollar theater after regular run. The hidden philosophy in a recent trideo hotly contested, whether of artifice or romance. Machinery strips the soul from an erstwhile love story. Put me down for eighty-one, some guy near Mister Black gesticulates. Some scrapper from the far corner nods a warning.

Don’t make me raise my tone again. He sees you’ve got tricks up your raglan sleeve, said plainly without twitches. 
Invisible without portents, it begins with silence and feathers falling. 
 

Anatomy lesson from ballerina. 

This body is assigned sanctity. The resolution of our lives hangs at stake. Consider with care the following: the basic unit of acceptance is an open hand. The first action performed with the mouth is a word that we’ve given meaning to. The motion is unobstructed. The tongue is a myriad collection of veins depending on the tautness or slack of muscle to produce sounds that may or may not provide meaning. 

Is this another riddle leading to the conclusion you’ve been unable to figure? Dissect the outer layers to get to the meat of the matter. This is the gist of language. These lessons were important in our youth. The question in all this confusion: Where am I coming from? Get ready for this one. As she leads into the fatal step.

She is liquid in reconstructed vinyl. She is too quick for the eye to follow.

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