The City, The Body, The City (Body) did (not) bend----------->how I lent a little Gesture today, how I came to you to enclose, how our seeing through *this was always a(n) || (non) Entrance. “A (Collapsible) Colon within it”. The Face, the (face) many-(fingers)-many (fucked) Faces.--------->“All having a good time.” A Real Good fucking Time—[!] Going in, going out, from a Hole, surfacing by chance, a Figure’s folding in Approach. “My only expectation has become to settle for what is not Available.” The Mouth’s Emergent, intimidates everything intimates that No One else is *here is an Exposure, a Delay or the Day’s (ghostly) Day. In Other Words---------->Loss & the Resonance of Loss which brings itself to us, in a way of fucking us, which can only be fucking us into that which can only be fucking repeating a sad variation of us fucking us. And yet, the very notion of “fucking” points me to an Idea of Creation. A distinct Progress towards coming-into (on) a Face. So, in *this Sight, everyone’s fucking lost, fucking tumbling into a Hole where producing is counted as encountering the Process of Producing as such, where (such) a touch peels away a Fold; where the Proximity lasts, after all, only as far as the Heart can I was beginning to feel the onset of an Attack where the Points is *this Problem: (is) is the loss of the end of Love & further-away speaking, you are being-on the (bending) Bores of my Shutters tore right-though to *this: All the (rest) Rest of what I say, is Arbitrary, merely Notes against (the) Rest
