text || Edward Nichols

Dr. Dent
 
What's happened to your flower The flute player switched to the piano forte. Eggs for sell in the golden lavortory, laid by the goose. Who laid golde-egg? I'm a quaff of smoke drifting with the ghosts.
 
A most splendid view, that was the purification epic stripped down to the adjacent popular notices.
 
Sloppy slop jars slopping a slapper. Write in the face, not the toe. A duel dallions for  you to scan. Bring your brain , please, at night lit up with melatonin.
 
The solo artist, oh say Dent to Wagner, working alone, just this far from the rafters, probably in the Bootheel, writing the Avante Gards conspiracy, framing the molecular fabric of the feel of textural upgrading for the reader to feel as well as tickle the intellect.
 
Existentialism forms my framework of thought, says Wagner as extra magnefication forms yours.
 
What's an egg, no matter who drew it. The slapper seems to want to crack them. 
 
Dr. Dent-Write on my good man. Putting the beauty of Reason into the treachery of logic bars all creative thought logic is merely a silly assumption made by people looking for order as the reversal of disorder, and discarding Synchranicity and also the writings of Freud altogether and the grater mind controlling.