this, in spite of calumny (or that spice of life, whatsit?) do all things hinge upon the classified or secretive documents of such and such or so and so. and who knows how many file drawers of drearily tedious materiel hide one sharp nugget of deadly earnest? (?can?t find examples? they?re all hidden away?)
my flesh is sunbaked and flaking(soon?) ? will it all blow away in a puff of dried skin? or will the submerged microscopickals do their duty and patch things all together? just because it?s happened before??
my inner brain?s all like ?gotcha!? and i wake up with only a dim glimmering of what?s just past? or even that anything?s just past. and where?d all that stuff go anyway? i?m remembering that everyone has a story and that everyone has a point of view and i?m thinking that 6,302,681,232 is an awfully big number (and i?m even wondering how they even get that number exactly: i mean, don?t they want to round up or something?) and i?m trying to get my brain folded round the idea that everyone single digit of that number represents a personal subconscious dream-memory narrative that they might (or might not) forget upon awaking and not-to-mention all the errata and detritus roiling around in all those heads (and not to mention all those millions of hairs on all those heads)?.
wow?