Thursday, April 15, 2010


Near this train coach, caboose, notes, frayed paper, cut up tingling paper of gold teetering in the May breeze its colloboration a sudden sight to pain. But if the smoke and vines and the illusory blood is hurt with its anger O Jill's finding a pavement to cut down the alley out the door of its forlorn better. Not English but the noun that predicates it.

So Jill her other incarnating below the believers :
'And who says, there is a Freud, beyond yer own excessively textualized reading of him. "said Jill, and walked off into the sunset of self-referential excess . Weary she undid her quote."

Then she climbed to the top of Guattari and Deleuze and said : BEhold Poop On Freud. And she read: In A/O Freud the Henry Adam of psychoanalysis.

And then she thought hasnt anyone ever read the Hamlet letters? or thought about the grass, and China. And she was sick to death unto "despair" and closed the book. Oh she breathed better then.

Yikes and Yokes said Jill and phone Mona on her desiring telephone
and they had -.
Okay. We're here at last, with no face and no preface either!


Jill met her later letter commencing their infinite affair