Without discrimination, waxing toward focus– if not waning by now– aspired in genuine concert, yet wrought so slowly; all but extinguished for this pitiful articulation, I muse over your blood.

Spill, it might– by chance a delightful, art-like form, but must not, for it is the lashing for that very yield which I can not bare at once. To imagine what might best suit each of you, in adequate manner, and more the burden of a simple mind, I believe there are too few subjects; a mediocrity for the creativity in such– my fantastical bleeding– let it affect you: that I concede.

Cradle it, as you might a babe. What do you make of such a thing? readers, bleeders, ye flakes as the faecal scum rotting presently ‘neath you. Why not prod at thee as I may— worthless organism, you are, as I. Consider, bitch: “Hi-ho, Hi-ho”. It prefers, for ease of pain. High, whore. White beseeching; what faded Stars’ blow. What lien your flow? Q-T-Bill loud while as lien does blow. Sink needle ’bout eighty, forgo. Buttons, pressed, bitch, same thing, over and over, fly right out that door.

Up like “high whore” striped red, white, beseech; what faded Stars’ blow. What lien your flow? Q-T-Bill loud while Lien does blow. Sink needle ’bout eighty, forgo. Buttons, pressed, bitch same thing, over n over. Fly right out that door!

Unclassified, therefore without discrimination for my own detest in such an activity, at risk of my own cataplexy, I mustn’t dwell here. But, I am pleased by what follows. Perhaps my woman; my interest has all but waned in slow weeping articulation. I muse over your blood, as spill it might– by chance– delightful, art-like form, but must not, for it is the lashing for that very yield which I can not bare.