The pen is touching time

The pen is touching time. Quick! Caresses Ubu rocket, honours gods' looks, cultures man machine christ, stamp that bad line money me. Big time lunch time top gun, pause: I tell you look you look, real safe, at war. With censored force you plan your plan to save communication's sweet awards, don't seem all that fulfilled. We own a thing we bought. I did believe it possible to root the habit-forming instance in authentic thought enjoyed as normal, like: "I look like I would long after the love face started" through mazes signed over to social advances; through movements turned filthy and grey in becoming preserved at a place lost to early caution. It's feeling time: I turn piss to lines of steam madness; I use these magical powers beyond thought; in woody reinforcements: stewed intuition; strangled tones. Morning happens when the Doctor faces aspirant vitamin smile injection labour; waiting to visit beauty; carving speeches from tension trash white bone. Only fear can follow hope, less sense returns.