8/3/08: Chapter 3

Horrible blasts of silence fill the gaps in the village. Three children sit, unattended, ready to rumble with the boss. Every time the boss says GO, they all run to the finish line and become proud of themselves. I feel as though I am almost more proud than they are, since the dirt is so red and the children sing like rain pouring down into the meadow. Every time a drop of rain falls, an angel becomes a pile of dust and dry fungus. That is how the old adage goes among the village folks. They all believed in magical antioxidants, which would help them with their breathing and their general respiratory health. They sucked fruit down in one gulp, and chilled their bones to the core with pride. I still sense the racket burying itself deeper and deeper into my face and hands. My bones are chilled with the stories of millions. I still believe in the childrens' calm, clear minds, but I wish they would learn to correct their own ways of herding cattle and other live stock. Battles often take place in the middle of fields. They sometimes grow from deep inside root vegetables, formed without a task at hand and a lemon at ease, bottomless. As if a rug determines a space in a vast vest, vermin are forsaken by witchcraft and lions.

My mandarin orange is covered in paste. Always has been, always will be. It's a thick paste, like a white man in a white shop. White men purchase drab furniture and compile it into a blazing collection of organized milk and eggs. Muffins are common, but during winter everyone enjoys a good cup of ice and soda. Millions of people receive and drink malt scotch by the dozen pounds or sarcophagus-mixed margins of pancakes ashits. Syringes are tired of doing so much work, but I have never grown tired of grand old grumbling oat brand flakes

DESOLATE neighborhoods stretch for miles, barren expanses of excess land, sold by men with beards, overtaken by women with heads and legs and feet. My curtains overlap occasionally, which I find to be a wonderful reason, only in June and July, which are the strongest types of years we have in this meager country. I've watched it all and I've seen. It has changed me.

Margaret lived in a small pound cake, soft, fluffy, dead. She needed to experience life within a pound cake, just because it was convenient and stable by the dozen. Billy should. Margaret lives inside a peach pit during the winter days, but since every day is equally unreasonable, she reads a good book about lozenges and fat and stupidity. Yeah, we need service in the daylight but not in the yard, when it rains my friends do not enjoy their backyard, which is large, Don't ask me to fill your papers out, don't ask to change your friends' diaperssssssssssss;

Large, expensive carts drive or fifteen miles to the west coast to seek sunshine and smaller My train that I own operates on a say-to-ensure to cook out with them on at least one obfuscation. If not, we needed to use the cutting board for a cool effect involving Natasha.