the production of fresh kill, blessed with a vigil of cumbersome eunuchs, at odds with the universe, and unlike anything that has come before. who says originality is dead? it can always be stolen, for a price. the incessant workings of inner spatial desire, uncanny by any standard. sanitary missions of unrelenting ambivalence leave me unrewarded. elbow grease withstanding, there is little traction for this path of least resistance. an unwarranted level of establishment within the cirle of constabulary rancor creates rumored departure for the typically fruitful endeavors of the villified masses. unschooled in the ways of fervently pious anti-cranial blasphemy, marching to the beat of untold truths, sychophantic, yet not without reproach for the lesser known prodigals. it all comes out in the wash.



a new ending discovered, for untold works, as yet realaized, with elements coming together in ways beyond simple expostion. best diplayed for discernable meaning. the direction is promising. notes on a cognitive flow have been tabluated. drafting is forthcoming.



further evidence of progress reads as such: electronic incoding of impluses through which sound and pictures produce coherent narratives expected imminently. there is no time to waste on discussion. the need for compelling evidence becomes increasingly necessary by the day. the material is guaranteed not to disappoint, subject to legal disclaimers offering no promise of complete or even partial satisfaction. void where prohibited.