The tube is rolled tight to the toothpaste. The exception is now the only golden rule. If a body meet a body, then ownership be stilled, and air open to robin song sweet as World Bank letterhead above a loan guarantee. My needs are your needs, su casa mi dinero, speaking subjects living the exchange rate every time they open their singular mouths' dictionary Sixteen thousand four hundred and seventy one. Single body single life is not the way it works.
Bushels rot on the docks, bodies along banks of pronounceable rivers.
Soft, large, heaped round numbers form a blurred museum awaiting the triumph of the single, uncountable denominator. The founding fathers guard the past as a limited edition of statues of virtuous activity, anchoring the feeling of free circulation. A picture of bodily wealth or financial health almost appears, floating behind landscapes of providential malls, where to park is to live the Thanksgiving logic of a progressive history without classes, hoping for nothing but the best for the best. For the rest, charred blocks under frequent flyer miles. These are affects, trance ones that I say and then embrace to feel sixteen thousand four hundred and eighty one.