Mountolive

Well, anyway I think we'd better just talk.

It involves something which I was just thinking about confronting, so long as you have terrific speakers. In that case---since you don't---let me tell you about this particular phase of the project in which I so frequently find myself caught up. But don't let it take too long. I have to get back to what I was doing. In French they call this sort of trance as if everyone knows it was initiated by jouissance which is not to say: I knew they would call it this. Because I've not heard them do so; I cannot look back and say that in the futuristic sense of what has occurred of late, I do indeed look forward to serving Proust's breakfast inside a comic: tea with biscuit, dipping the latter into the former. Recollecting, indulging.

And your primary sources are: photos of the author himself, Mr. Grom looking up from a paling dish of cank,

shit, whatever that entails, the rot is inside, with the emo song we transcended mere dead-girlfriend dolled up for you in the basement (the movie Dead Girl) to something more locally...positive, reinforcing: a scene from your days in youth, swearing not to measure anything; just wishing for a reflective moment rather than a one directed towards ensnaring the future within present whims,

however powerful the emotion that enforces them, they are all fleeting and all---for the most part---revolting. Yet this is the complexion of an entire face.

Hahaha,

Mark