Tres Facile Pour Moi

I feel you look away as you donn the uniform of KING. I listen to your patter of thought, but I keep my distance. Different zones make you moan in arrogance and laziness. Grosse follows that path. I believe, but I also know the daily reality of nothing. It is difficult to be the moon beam for a society separate from me daily. I am overseas, in mind, today, and you are nothing to me. I find a space of HE and we play telepathically. Finding gravity as the sureness of Newton, we transform the weight of matter and circulate the planets around the earth, not the sun. Being a Russian boy is pas facile pour moi. J'adore mon chat. Tu es mal a elle. Fou toi. See the sharpness of code placed in poetry and translation that then affects biological transcription. RNA ceases and only DNA exists. We know particles of matter matter, but witchery does not care. We barely have a breath of air. Harry play with Joe and find a Cricket mallot that can wack the KING to France to be beheaded by the WORD guillotine. Wizardry being formed for Russian Counsel needs is my focus in this instant. THE MIRROR around me is the basis of this "malady." No problem with reality, I am never pleuracy. Pneumonia is your king and menegitis kills every time. Be with me in my canoe and we will shoot Louis and Clark in our vehicle of birch bark. The Indian guide never existed. "Stories" need to be resisted. HISTORY is dead in the fucked in the head (all of you), pas moi.