No longer

I am short now of a good explanation. Luck fades I suppose, without method, without moving. Full moon. fully mad. It is now shrill noise. Without a signal it draws in breath, each beam carves its own path. Winding in defiance to the government of roads, there cannot be a madness.
Tell me of burdens, left from spanks of love. Define presets of wrong available to subscription. Tell the sparking neurons to cease. Variance is outline to the tees in the font. What letter leans needy? What swoop lifts to fit within the knotted niche. There is a longing for punctuation, the stop, pausing paragraphs lest we all run on. Why did you scar the vowels, no, the consonants are confused. There is no sense.
Did you mean to leave it there. As a favor, so there will be no need to say goodbye. Did you mean to scribble on, the page before you, the page after the seam, the page before you, the page before the spine. You write on my page and ask that I carry on in turn.
I have not your resignation to luck. Look through a nice frame. Thrice. Could I be the last page please. The narrative D.N.R.
Today now, these days now, dysfunction seeps through paper. Dry heave adhesive chokes with its fumes. A little liquid will help.

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