chase scenes serial #8

summary or rehashing of its form and content, even when it is bound into something that has the illusion of being transformed into a new entity. That is the costume of style. Certainly I can have a voice, but, here, in this vomit, it is untempered. I am not even attempting to communicate anything, or even use correct spelling. My handwriting is growing appalling. Slower I can’t get it out so I speed. Where am I going, back to Bismarck? No. I keep thinking I feel ticks exploring beneath my underwear. After, no, during our hike, we were under attack by wood ticks. We each flicked at least fifty (50) ticks from our clothes and skin. They would just appear. Even after I felt that I had eradicated them one would appear in my chest hair, or even if I knew them to be gone, I would still feel them stealing through thickets of my hair. I need to stop, my wrist is sore. No wait, that is a weak way to leave a seam to stitch onto. Shall I talk about how I remember nothing of Swann’s Way‡? It is humorous that. No. I keep thinking my father’s eyes are opening. He is putting his feet up and I am listening to Darkspace.
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