CUCKO

The last point I made before the clock struck midnight and the stupid cuckoo popped out and reminded me yet again that I was doing the right thing breaking up with you because you had no sense of class and you would always be a person who thought nothing of it to display a cuckoo clock in the living room and minded not that this type of ornament was - at the least - tacky, but especially a reflection of the demise of a psychological connection between a couple. 

The cuckoo was not the problem so much as the problem was the words we exchanged while it cuckooed.

The last point I tried to make was for you. It was going to happen this time. In four days, we would get the news and the news would be what we want it to be and would change our lives and we would be happy again. The point was to make you believe that the streets we walked through tonight would be paved with gold and honey in four days. The pavement on which we strode this evening was smooth and familiar, but we would not miss it when it turned to gold. I felt myself smile as I thought of your disbelief. I handed you a shovel and asked you to bury that cuckoo clock if the phone didn't ring in four days. 

W Clark

The revolt lasted no time at all, but I was doubtful that it would have no lasting impact. The strays would keep growing older and the mistakes would never see the learned; we were colorless and plentiful, and we slept because our eyes were weary of the sun; you remembered me until the day you died, then I didn't feel your love. That was what the projection of the impact provided, and I know the combined words sought a way to paper and some were never useful to others.

Authors are writers who finish their works - so I was forcefully semi-educated by one influential non-informant this past week, so I packed up my creativity and self-inflicted phrases into a story - one authored and had the parts which would take that plot and stamp it a "piece."

Certain that I would quickly vocabularize my opinion clearly for lack of silence due to a formula of ideas succeeded by psychological capture.

...above and beyond the world and it's webs and nets global cyber spaces and intricate algorithmic....

Warning:
If you don't have to read every sentence once or twice, this story is not meeting the style I am rendering.

No, I never, never put much thought nor gained any peace of mind in the lline whriten Goethe, "Alles nhae werde ferry," or everything near becomes distant. He was speaking of twilight and blindness.
No, I never put much thought into ambiguity because I feared madness.

I removed myself from the situation at hand. I took inventory of the moment. I wondered if the moment took inventory of me.

Tilly Bryce was riding her moped down Williams Street on the sidewalk when I began to get anxious. She was surely supposed to ride on the street, but I heard from her ex-beau, Stev, while we were sipping Starbucks we had found in a tray on the top of an Oldsmobile in the Chevron dealership lot, that Tilly had recently been convicted of her third DUI and was not to operate a moter vehicle until some certain amount of time, but she did not consider many laws to apply to her, especially since her family was wealthier than someone like me had any idea to try to describe - even to myself - so I just nodded my head and told Stev that she was going to go to jail.

Today went well. The events of the day went well in terms of the turnpike  to hell was as smooth as could be expect imagined like a perfect trainwreck.

The morning sushine was our timebomb and we revolted as the rays were in demand, regardless of what has happened so much sooner or later.

The revolt, on the other side (so to speak), lasted no time at all, but I was doubtful of the fact that it had no lasting impact. The strays would keep growing older and the mistakes never would see the leaned; we were all colorless and plentiful, and we slept because our eyes were of the sun, you remembered me until the day you died, then I didn't feel your love. That was projection of the impact that was and I knew the combined words were sought by some and were never useful to others.
Authors are writers who finish their works - so I was semi-educated by a few by some influential non-informant this past week and so I packed up my creativity the nself-inflicted a story line - I was an author and had the parts which would take the plot and stamp it as a "piece."

Okay, I said, "I can take a joke." I began to shuffle down the opposite direction of the atrium corridor and I began to focus on a new plot, but I needed a new persona first, then the intangible and it's obscurities would be a natural consequence.

In an effort to prove the power of the meaning of words, I will launch my latest metaphysical awareness campaign: Speaking in one-word sentences. And as I waited for my mom to pick me up from school I was reading an essay written by a Hawaiian clown who used to teach French Revolutionary Architecture but decided to write in order to teach and he wrote well for a clown I suppose - as I waited the notion struck me between the lines that this constant quest to transcend the shallow traditional surface of society and judgment, I was not operating inside the function of my mission to master world domination.

The second time I was administered mouth-to-mouth recsessitation was the second time it wasn't necessary, and was the event that spurred me to embark immediately to see a specialist.

I always thought of myself as the dangerous type - mentally, obviously.

But it's like all the times I thought too much about the aforementioned equations. A house and a home are not going to solve my problems. I don't have any problems, and surely I don't need a house and a home to prove that I need something else to think about.

Mad?

This isn't a test. This is it. Good luck, losers; good luck, winners. The gun will fire - then you haul ass to the finish line. If you finish first, you are the fastest. If you finish second - well, take a wild guess.