A Touristing Occasion

The future is no more sanctified than the past, or now, I guess I meant pow. To the prisoner people! We drink, but they'd take the grain, the kernel of. One please, and watch them drop their eyes, lead you off to the back where the doors swing and at least you can let the motion trick your mind, into silence, for a while, for a while. Call me Tony two Times and pony up, out with the commas and into the broken, wide street, they call it? They react to it, and so do we, the it, mystery. First, kill all the writers, then to sleep, tomorrow is another noun. Duvets for the ones who eat from barrels, they already wear Brooks Brothers, dropped off by maids at The Goodwill; but we have only hard and Nessy, that and our belief, the strangest things.