The cowboy drank water out of a steel tortilla. Because the racetrack had no reason beyond love to exist, the cowboy chewed the pensive end of his mustachios, thinking in Technicolor, and offered the dinosaur the steel tortilla, to share, to sip, to page through for all his books were all the ones he'd read, and everything he'd read had been written in water, in semen, in ink--even ink & semen were simply water, slightly more permanent forms of water.
Dancing was simply a form of water that spilled down shirts into the idiotic grounds for belief. When things begin to happen for someone, rhythm ceases to be seen as the vegetable it is, the carrot which is a magnetic field of tolerance, riding crop stares, and tethered passion to low bandwidth, high sensation time illumined with anti-collision LEDs. "It is a cofferdam of certainty," he told the dinosaur, and began to speed, around and around the track, breathing the smoke-thin aerogel of the silicon-rust-belt-victims' noise of billion chewing stomachs filtering press releases for despair from their weblog squirts.
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