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The Transparent, Signified...
Writing, writing, writing and all the while attending a college. This poetics of story is dreadfully confusing.
Just listen to the sheer atheism I'm trying to make you listen to... nothing but wriggling and equivocating.
My personal antipodium position comes before the proverbial "I" which "they" wanted to eliminate.
Though erethism must stem from different areas, love songs belie this. The problem is that the most notably bothersome writers
are friends of the publishers and a lot of readers insist on books speaking feng shui.
Polish poetry is its own proof of being spoken. A reader might comprehend everything or they might barely be able
to speak after reading such small print. A special microphone allows extra realistic erudition in only fifteen minutes.
If someone is smart enough to understand the meaning of independence then it shouldn't be impossible to comprehend the gestalt
periphery expansion theory my colleagues are advocating. Even the prehistoric sentence-picture, which many cannot understand,
indicates that the mastodon was breast fed.
Wht makes this writing meaningful is the possibility that someone might inquire after me. I get scared when I think
about what happened to Old Snaggletooth. At the end of the story, after the chap has opened his personality up, he involuntarily
performs a cantabile lexorciscm made up entirely of imaginary punctuation. Whoever has voice legs and idiomatic superfricativity
will stimulate an interest in educational programming.
I don't have a clue or the patience to try what that one woman did. It's hard to synopsize. A mother executant
who brings home the bacon tentatively delves into Earthism. I'd like to do more reading. My mind is doing double duty from
an outsiders ex diegesis. I'm confident that even the worst oratorio that mangles language is popular with those of an aqueous
humor.
The answer to the eternal thunder is listening. This reminds me that language is transparent. It informs the whole
nation that something has happened and, to that estent, shapens it to varying degrees of fallacy. Occasionally something
happens that is actually in accordance with its description (i.e. not the newspaper articles but the breakfast).
The next hypothesis goes on shaking the pumpkin without officially thinking but should be listened to anyway. Ancient
stories quoth is exhausted times were for adults only. There were barely any readers because language wasn't understandable
yet. Some people in the audience knew a few quatrains but couldn't get a word in edgeways. Not enough has been said in the
last fifteen centuries about small i vs. large I and meaning being turned in on itself, that is, do we ever really connect
with the reader?
Yet we musn't be shy about entertaining the humor. I am not an ethotheothistic person, and futhermore, it would
be wrong to dote. I jot this down. The words they sound rhythmic when you're reading into it. If I didn't know better I'd
swear you were reading the utmost in something or other. At the point where the preplanned intersects with languages actual
performance, the semiotic floorboards begin to creak. To understand becomes to stand under, which becomes to "stunder"
(stutter).
Transparency of poignancy in talking is quite uninteresting. Telling transparent lies is for conveying the denials
of certain individuals, true or fictional. Other things people loathe are ally punsters. It usually happens that children's
transparentoonerisms are the network equivalent of tooth decay. It reveals how people's minds go through a lot of hands.
I'm respectful of the mundanity of life but still need new toilet reading.
Tomorrow, machines will eyeball the words so that we can comprehend. It's because of this desperate, makeshift jargon
that I can leisurely rewrite the cantos perfectly, and those who suffered from lack of beneficient thought are left with the
sense that I forgot what I had thematically set out to do. They may not believe what I tell them. Then something is sure
to be made into a big thing.
Phoneticians have discovered that certain consonants have aphrodisiacal properties in test cases. Those found in
the sentence, "I opened the door and saw her naked", merit a most flattened inspection. It must be that I'm getting
the notion that I'll flunk gnosis, but a test would reiterate that I'm present. I value the incomprehensible because language
suffices to transpire time and besides, what sort of orchestration of intent would really be seasonable and decent?
I tell you it's like swimming against the tides to be so out of step with the timeghost. When can I expect the fortune
of being laudable and having providence? Maybe I shouldn't wait until the external world notices that the very formula for
their cogitation can itself be the death sentence of artistic purpose. What escapes me is why anything is worth so much to
the ones who make up the huge following.
Of course, language is not merely gutteral sounds. It is certain that thinking is real, otherwise nothing I fancy
is really what I fancy because nothing is understandable, it's totally disincomprehensible and counterintelligensible. There
would not be any purpose in saying anything and also, poetry would stagnate and artists become even needier. However, it
is true that I can no longer tolerate what I was saying, like, not so long ago. I have been informed that moisture is the
thing most needed to soothe an ear. It is generally thought that hearing is crucial to sound, but, and this is the upshot,
what the hell for?
As for me, I would rather stand between the sexes as a conduit for a language I cannot intuit. I often think this
is what keeps me from getting stadium gigs. If I utilized wrath and envy, that would underscore the alchemy of language in
the same way that poetry does what it can for me. That sounded good. It sounded like it was meant for a target audience
that I was once part of. My syntax has been likened to an enormous bag of cement which flows endlessly, catching up everything
in its oozing action, including the rinds and seeds of watermelons.
The monopoly on authorship of public plaques torments me. Their iconography is tenth-rate, but because I thought
hypnotic linguistics offered an alternative, I trance-uttered my text aloud. Idle chit chat is the perfect compliment to
history. We have to catch up. Being linguistic is presently the state we're in. Foreign words come up all the time, it's
only confusing when that means this.
Do I think language stands in for time? Very often it beats me. I don't think I want to know which came first,
the encyclopaedia or the constitution. However, one thing I'll never forget is this, people: it pays to buy good tea.
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