Paralogies, from the Texticles of Raymond Queneau (tr. M. Lowenthal):
That it gets ready, far from, the what has to be said, then the echoes that to the cock-a-doodle-doos of an innate, but laughably long card the limits reply, reply. It's midnight. Some write, some dream. The ink flows through the fingers of the moon in its coaches of algebras. Next to, almost, thereabouts, the stopover point is announced by the blatant chimes of a five-franc piece. It's still noon. Time hasn't changed since the Silurian age. It's barely changed. Barely: just enough to no longer become a troglodyte.
That it gets ready, far from, the what has to be said, then the echoes that to the cock-a-doodle-doos of an innate, but laughably long card the limits reply, reply. It's midnight. Some write, some dream. The ink flows through the fingers of the moon in its coaches of algebras. Next to, almost, thereabouts, the stopover point is announced by the blatant chimes of a five-franc piece. It's still noon. Time hasn't changed since the Silurian age. It's barely changed. Barely: just enough to no longer become a troglodyte.
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are you on aim ever?
i was asking about your music because you have a peculiar assortment of favorite bands, seem involved in hk cinema, and i am a record collector and a kung fu movie fan. so there. hi-ya.