Jessica Comola

An Atmosphere Transmitted Through Time and Reduced to the Last Minute

In copying the immortals from one marina into another we found when they came
into view there was often a small phenomenon. We often ate Lotta candy. In the
adult pump clubs there was a lot of do-re-mi nakey. Flash-bounce. Loligram.

This junk food addiction is like “looking for the true self”—when we met the taste
it was losing something, a sense of loss. I think there is a sense but I’m a dirty
character. I remove the bad tastes by being placed on a hot bath wall.

We were engaged in a truly unique outbreak. The quality of our cake was ensured so
that it would not fall, but you had to eat it whole and fluffy. The people experienced
the superspeed of losing sight of the coordinate axes together with ALL—the
function of thinking.

Once serialized, they’d fled in every direction. There were always pale-fingerprints
carrying brief pardons of theorem on their person in order to avoid detection. We
wrote in level letters. We copied imperfections from one mark to another. This was
to declare Thy Wonderlands, oh Loudspeaker.

We follow the rules, we kill our woollies, we place regular supplies of provisions
in designated areas throughout the surrounding mountains. We will let you
make a needle hole. We can ensure twelve free minutes under the supervision
of paramedical thatch. But there is a common expression—pitiable, pitiable—a
common saying. A private collection. A bunny’s gummy dream. A set of questions. A shiny light emission.

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