Salable mannequins bandied in pants, racked to their thighs in characteristic warnings, pastry pies delivery senders formidable images, corrected with her glasses. Marred imperfections surfaced that day. A modern breath of history. Cracked pottery was thrown out -- trash material. 

 

        Guides walked up the stairs, plummeting for tips. Just a coin. Or a bill. Hearts sparred at no expense because some things were important, the ones to attend to . Beige tablecloths hung over a baby's shoulders. The things they would do for you were good. I noticed a spot of embarrassment in myself. Yet the position wasn't that good. Braille was fed instead of lessons. A crackdown in the pileups made the news forum, if they were wry. Gurgle.

 

        Searching for a memory to take home with me, I knew one would appear after it was over with. Past marks gave me a clue to something, I wasn't sure of  what. I was pleased, though. Woop, woop, and offit goes. Naturally.

 

        The asshole was finally sealed up.

 

        Warped plastic. Grippings of nothing to punish me. I'll look for answers no more. Or try to. Maybe it won't be easy. Ignoring the issues that made what was at one time known as existence. I shall not exist. I'll be a placid weak overtone. Casting bells on my perplexities, sending a curtain out to be washed without the emotional strain that always follows. My eyes widen, to see less. Sharper focus' bleed my eyes.

 

        I dip a brush into an old-fashioned inkwell, driving it, drawing my vanities in animation. Keystone cops with little mustaches. Model T bumpers hit the lamp posts. Jolly men survey the damage, then run after them; stringing followers abide behind the car that can't stop. Going, going, farther, holding hats above the wind. Everything in black and white. While subtleties explain the plot.  They jump up and down, running, their little legs carry them along. Chasing around the bends, streets with cars in opposite direction barely miss the Model T. Suddenly at the end of a road under construction they come to a stop. The Model T hangs over the edge -- just barely on a thread-like branch.

RIVER BED   78

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