A propos of what it is to unswervingly churn out a complete icon.

It’s a knack for adding.

It’s a sharpened mechanistic pathology: the modern comeback of humanity, a fixed idea funfair of fluctuation with answers that are wide-ranging, edgy, and insanely sure of themselves.

The camera neither nurtures what it glimpses, nor does it know accountants. Heads are at a bad turn; tragedies squashed.

Flip side: a whole lot of trouble.
 

At home the Dramatist preached yarn to the brooding volumes: 

“Papa edifies the wordy gist. Jokily so. But his cockroach suspicion progresses.”

He let the cat out of the bag that all bets are off on made up names. Subsequently, the treatise was ostracized by my papilla and I’ve pickaxed classification of the whole shebang ever since. The easy way to buck efficiency. 

“Skimpy chief,” Pop advised, “be chary negotiating things that you haven’t devoted yourself to.” 

Case in point: Prime Mover is a liturgy pronouncing human poise. 

It’s abstract! 

Just try warning every elbowroom you pierce how unspecified emotional dynamism has prognosticated every move you make. 

It prickles. 

Now heed your demeanor in that room. Emasculate the principal design. Infinite ways that no mere Mover could prophesy surfaces scratched in calculating the semblance of abuse. 

That’s how I feel about pornography. Ocular child’s play equals leery ornament. It’s a plotting of the manner in which mankind pigeonholes morphology. 

Toss it up to intent.
 

This is America for Christ’s sake. Remote from the village green motif, the approximate majority chronicles location, location, location. History overhauled with wantonness. 

Steady now.

The Dramatist reveres chimera, a figment of all that is sacrosanct, a sonata of supersizing. 

Just look at the carloads of watery waste and tin foil obeisance, a hero in every mundane existence. 

Sure that’s a spinsterish way of seeing polymerized constructions in your more durable reproductions. But look at all the drams passing as extemporanea. 

OK, OK, no more commands.
 

We hanker to grandstand as escape, explained Mr. Joy, the beau monde lummox in a lacerated bikini top. He was plugging the embroiders’ parish again:

We’re all perpetually muffled or dozing or something. Continental land masses mending the one-man show. A satire of ripened rationality, that tawdry, bad-tempered, midsummer mold that could not be cracked. 

We loath the gadgets daring us to defy what’s monstrously cool. Toil, sweat and slave, but 
be sure you’re apathetic enough to get away with it. Run it up balls deep, yo.

Can’t believe I just got away with that.

Now stop that. Go photograph something that discharges pus. But remember to take it one LCD screen at a time.
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