Chris MannEn route to Cornell and the infamous cheese sandwich in the bath, Ludwig
Wittgenstein attended a matinee performance by Cab Calloway and fell in
love. He who had whistled whole scenes of Wagner's Ring together with Adolf
Hitler as a boy; he who was suspected as the recruiter of the English spies
Philby, Burgess and Maclean; he whose whole philosophy of language was
turned upside down by an Italian Marxist giving him the finger; the
compiler of a word list fell in love with the compiler of a dictionary.
A beautiful story in a second language.
or, yellow
Vicarious humility (pushing a fact towards it's superlative), not so much a
picture as a frame of mind, a work, You is the verb of Word. The
proposition is romantic - we disappoint reality so that it can continue
being real. No witness now, but guarantor. Through a stupor of duplicity. A
dialect without subject. Agreement is thus defined as some quasi irony, a
hybrid phantom guilt. It requires English be a violent phenomenology of
credit (On how to ambiguous: A distinction is a plastic immanence. A thing
is a passive. Therefore responsible. A parasite. Gettit? Data is the last
pure gift. (Of all possible solutions, paranoia is the quickest -
discussing the weather is a perfectly adequate theory of justice)). A
prosthesis. In narrative. A perjury. Take my word for it. Most. And what
then is a question? A lie? By Versace?
Translation (the tragedy of I in English), language is that which is
reasonably jealous of the way things are. Embarrassed by the literal, as
though she were some tawdry action, it uses spelling to apologise: If
though it is that we say what we mean, we prove language tautological, a
price. And like some amnesiac And would it too, a The without a punchline.
Promise? I mean a picture ain't blackmail, similarity is the insecurity of
reason. (Reason has an ego and it contends malice be just a touch naive -
knowledge is the pretty sin, a stupid obsess apology in please. Me.)
(Truth, the tu form of consciousness, a self-evident stuttering, plains
bout complacent prices, I means they's facts, no? Only a fool would take
hundred cents to the dollar.)
The word, the left over of grammar (a judiciary of cause and effect) does
time: I say I say I say. Purl two. And meant. Repetition is the first
negation. It also comes in red. It happened. The other, being neither one
nor other, the sentimental possibility of reference, a you in twos, did.
Did too. But too is such a clunky explanation. I mean irony is a gift -
facts are the value of injustice. Like pretend is a pretty modest idea, the
tempting of criteria which shit:
A la some name in button factory was he apathetic bout the bed, a
'xaggerate with no past tense and then no rent.
Dolly ontological rocks: Better. Bet. Experience is the shortest way round
language - frame's the same. Fucked. Coz's not because the frame has shadow
that got no thics, self contradiction's only skin deep, object's it's own
product if it functions as a morgue. And it, the ideal bracket
(representation by proxy (the economy a dictionary of sames (things is
jected only when they's gift))), the very picture of negation, intends. To.
A medium. Predicate. And most predicates are inconvenient if not downright
accusatory, a tacky decisionist in suit. Ludes?
To the extent that it does nothing is knowledge polite. Though it does
haggle (Taste is an arbitrary deduction and therefore the prescribed tool
for victims (price the normalisation of knowledge)) - a metaphor is not
only outside existence and therefore both true and useful, it is also a
model of responsibility, an epiphany of 'stead: For? - he was just the hero
of her pain, a narrative in socks. I mean guilt rhymes: A you is my
apology. In a box. A sore excuse. Intention is the slum of context - only
the liable is particular (only the nineteenth century is interested in what
you know (Facts of course suffer from a similarity disorder - the
christians still haven't forgiven Christ)).
she: itchy simile, a noun in legs
the story so far: petulant, no fat thats in certain
Logic is a poor mirror, it explains everything:
Fate takes the hook and gasping paradox looks for more - cute analogy says
the boy next door.
Psychology is not the same as psychology. Even I know that - the self is a
technique for crossing the road (a straight line is not an optimist (guilt
maps what hasn't happened. Hypocrit it, 's tho a symptom, a qua (have has
had ontological office))), a decorative shame. Logic only looks like work,
a upped subject - like is how it finger an idea. Chicken, tease ain't but
the moral copy, an image Of th pathos Of sense - the truism is nostalgic,
poverty is not a form of poverty, things have a quaint access to being, yes
is a yesser fetish.
Yellow and the law of identity, an allergy in three parts:
Two, But you said
It argues, it its around and names, horizons the event and then insteads
(existence is not a name): The same is different. Coz it can.
A sight that doesn't summarise, a confession vain and (it's hard to
embarrass power by being friendly to it (Time - the nice imperfect negation
of the self, a prosthetic narcissism, it ransoms blame and))
Data, tourism for the fashion starved (revenge and the ghosts of
consumption), knowledge uses use (perception sold as satisfaction (profit
the means of exchange)) to privatise consciousness - it sulks. The sandpit
of reason, knowledge is just bad manners - things is not quite thinkable.
Dependent. But as a subject it is of course ideal, pink and pious and
partly legal. Use is anyway psychologically graceful. In that we's up on
vis-a-vis. But the sublimate that lends as sames the dignity of choice
(intent rehearses reason) likes toys. And loves to know your self - only in
games is logic not quite consent. Rights. The language of the not-yet, the
verb form of Is (justice but is in the know) is particularly same. How it
is that maybe is no monicker. Nor more.
The event and the adverbial my-mys (humility has a crush) go all ditto and
they: With and for, the trites and blonde colours of convenience, a fond
immanence - to do language is to picture heaven: A plot is not a halo that
decorates a want, it's a plot because. Insomnia the lot. Shot. So? A piss
poor past. Now Show rhymes Redeem See. Go on. Me. And. Got it on the never
never, a flatline fact, loan - you is a dull form of speech, inert, sick,
seriously deaf, a small time (the past is an early argument) short, a
satisfied mistake. It adequates taste. Say? An apriori It that naives to
represent (it's not discrete) uses questions (question is that something
has something to do with matches) as explains the props: As a question is
the sacrifice of the questioner, so is a second language specifically that
without question. The negative of memory. The thing is then that which is
not economically itself, a prosthetic thought, like And, an exercise in
vowels. And we all know And to be transcendent. Memory, the placebo of the
haves (narrative is neurotic, a transference in four four) has to too:
Consolation, the clone, is married - suicide is the only immortality of the
past. It mimes already. And dressed in nominals it pictures sin: Oedipus is
no stranger to proof. I mean what's the second person of who? (It's not a
price, it's an vestment, a reason please of maybe maybes - not all cops is
knowable, they's selling shares in red.) After the fact. A what It was
hidden in The gave it the colour of sense, a forger and exporter of privacy
(memory, docket, being an attempt at justice (being the condition of it's
repetition)), a snotty what's what. Privacy is anyway it's own shortest
description. I mean it's got existence down so well it's gonna do a bank:
Rhetoric is a pretty logic, a proxy drip. And on the verbal conditions of
deja vu: The thing is a voyeur, no prophet it, the word a cliche glish -
being dreams in syllables, not tax - but only the countant thinks the world
deduced, a cumulative perversion, a deferred blue. Credulous, complacent,
bitch, it takes socks to make of box a paradox, fixed and finished and
want. Sentimentalist itch, difference comes in weak tautologies invidious
and spare and like truth being worried on to the real, it fits. A decadent
sprise. I mean information is rust, no? It anyway leeches matter, witness
some entropic bourgeoisie - money is the logic of overhearing price, a
semantic of hi camp wants, as though a thing was mere a way of rescuing
wanting from itself (this of course the difference of this to that), data
the interest charged. Being on first names, we used to call her I. (As a
medium, knowledge has one advantage over it: it. I mean how thick is a
dimension anyway, thick like water? Once, a hymn to the stupid, a rhizome
of dandies and thugs (but when it's always the same distinction it may as
well be usury (theft, insight, the art of the unseen), crude nuclei
franchised out to some walk up romance), one's thumb is done, we's gloved.
Therapeutic is the surrogate. And spare. Other than ideal. A true
distraction. God's need for self-revelation is so simply pathological.
Metaphors in some parts wear pants.)
Logic, the gift (the what of want is what it's not therefore) (the xample
(a cap on tick is only still a cap) is parasitic on it's absence) is what
the subject looks like when fully dressed. Language is then the ikon of
having nowt to say. Null um n numb n all deluded too, a tourist debt. What
exists but as a law, a souvenir. And not all yous' strategic. Agreement is
and the surplus of scarcity, a model theft. A fractal of a former self, a
set evasion, the subject conjugates as some sort confess, an is intent.
Shit. All its is mine. Fuckin fetish. Stract. But a bill dollar is good
mirror. Tries to truth by copyright as like some idolatrous grace - all
dogs is psychological. And on the pathos of the straight line, knowledge is
only more efficient than the victim, a juxtapose that tacks the toy for coz
it's conscious. Words do the surveille. And coz (scab) a picky evil, the
subject is a perpetrate, all hid n itsy. Bit. And swallowed in anticipate,
the unsaid (a word is a particular mute) surrogates away (an adverbial
complex of hit and run) (duration is happly fraudulent), mediated pink by
doubt (How the cunt conundrum got's comeuppance) and other traits 'geoisie:
Home, boy. The rep cheats. Coz coz it but no metaphor no more. Anyway no
more than cept for coz (Wanting, the science of thinking, a pun in some
parts:). Representation was a disappointment to Pavlov - the reactionary
was only ever a form of encryption. Beneath a-thing-is-an-altruist lurks
the fallacy desiderata: The paranoid are inert - language is the argument
of unintended consequences, the aesthete's ethic. Facts ain tho prudent but
- the words got in the way. The algorithm of the unknowable, the norm
effect, thus thusses as she might but the symptomatic has-been is noculate
(spite phobes) gainst the top-down transfer tech of all them wet set net
heads. Necro narco fet. Pullin trick. Positive. Suffring a mascot feedback
fish. Fat. And the neurotic too's. Melancholic yous. Tune. (As prosthesis.
Eases.) (The downbeat's only always catatonic.) The vowels here are mad.
Stiff. That which we maintain forgetting. The revenge of doubt. What knows
of It only what It don't. Uses pockets then to clone the ball, then doubles
up the tips. The shadow, the syncopated stammer, haunts relief (the law of
syndicated reversibility): Symmetry, the irony of the same, a modest
(agreement is the proud negation) idiomatic ism-ist (anonymous is not the
same as same) packs up: Reasoning - the generic of information, the
populist model of greed, stigmatised by yay and nay in triplicates, envied
by default - choose two pseuds and lose (Ode to the masochist of
satisfaction): Example is a sin. Empirical that. Fashionably pariah, the
calculus of extra. Best. A collusion of plausible oops loops and nannies.
Jammies.
Some desperately ideal inductive thumb, numbers is a round neurosis - the
anxiety of definition is it's defining characteristic, language the after
hours activity, some economic functionalist not even an apologist for pain.
The real is thus rational to the extent my-job-the-positivist. So being
convenient, truth is satisfactory. It copes. A shameful surrogate past.
Bullshiteros and their flirts. The past, the stockmarket where data is the
currency of dissolution (please vis-a-vis me (learning, a charming attempt
at redundancy (This noun has a price. It is positive))): The picture is a
friend of mine who limps from cee to three (The word is the obit for a
patently unsuccessful experiment. It floats in the puddle of failed fetish.
Sadly this is a problem for bankers. And we all know context to be an
opportunist. Fuckin user. Terpret and the semanticists). Hermeneutically
cute, a gang of possible stutterers (explanation is the shop of the
traitor) puzzle their way through (a prob only coz it's not): Consistent is
complacent with their corollary cut off. Irritatingly cured. Too proof.
Pure. I mean of course I is hypochondriac, knowledge is the domestic and
applied form of alination, transcendence the benign form of contradiction.
Cuts transaction costs, but.
In representing you to me, the state makes pretty bills (But a you is not a
motive and neither false nor true (facts a yellow narrative), the fictively
indifferent journalist effect): Til two tills in bed are found displayed
and organised, the proxy and the box. Anyway, she'd already been outed as a
know-all by the Britannica: But blue be just a riff with pictures - a pun
is a fantasy, a libidinal think in it's pink complicits: Nice hyphen. And
coz abstractions are ambivalent in English, a list of opaque negative. It,
the attempted amnesiac (greed - the populist theory) claims me as symptom,
and what a nag - paranoia exorcises best what won't be found. A putschist
crat, a farce of lines and cue what justify the bits is then around. Banal.
Ownership, the neurotic intelligence (the stupid grace intransitive, a
superstitious teevee protocol (intelligence, the dress rehearsal of
stupidity) (repetition and the mechanics of the knowing silence)) of the
masochist, a sarcas: Dolly obvious (a therapy in some parts), a worry
impotent: Language, bargaining the right to speak, the jerk's jam
(censorship is cheap transcendence) mam (stupidity is all I has to give),
all the evidence for words is in and but it stinks - only the sceptic
quotes. As though evidence were competent. (Reading underwrites the better
left - the embarrassment of the live truism.) And the tawdry more.
Use is bourgeois for status, deconstruction the photo of orchestration.
Together they fail to spell trouble. Fifteen across, four letters. I mean
which side of tautology do you want to be on, before or after? A thing is
insane. Things. Fucked. A schiz practises to be a pun: mememememe is a
reasonable way to clear the nose, though more is a common diagnosis (you is
of course a motive, a way to connect facts). It's failure to be otherwise
was by now quite urgent - the reader, competing with text, a resistance in
four four remembers better: A rented what, a plastic therapist, the word
always has an image of it's speaker, a selfish accessory. After the fact.
Sense confesses presence (the logic of generalisation), and immune from
denial as it is it ironises pasts as psyched results, a flip top fallacy of
not being able to say what it means without meaning it. Quarantining guilt
up in a subject, pet, it then admits. To style as explanation. Failed same.
A plain implicate acknowledged as criteria. An
if-only-she-would-insinuate-me. An average apriori gaze. All so apropos. A
prose. Dud. Guv. A runt of pretty wimps that indifferent. A state that
looks like vote (bureaucracy is the attempted confusion of tautology with
it's articulation) is thus the citizen of taste, a subtle. A decrous
compromise, an our us suffices as a packet of redundancy, an art of all
possibles. Quasi. Naming disappears it to some hex. Set. See it pic. Sit.
Blame so looks like the hook (the self was only ever an attempted
rationalisation) (The white flag, or suspended disbelief (when is a
sheet?): Rep. Yes is just the metaphor for no.) So I was lying. So? All own
uppity, parsing pass the parcel semtex wetchex and sanitary fads: I wanna
be your blindspot baby. A plug-in electoral frame. Inane. My dog fatuous
got a bone, right or wrong. A hat is not a map cept sometimes. Catnap. A
credit card is just recycled bureaucrat. Tickle it and it's plastic bag.
And coz not all Its is self policing, not all Its is mum. And, then, sum.
Five ninetynine is the name of the example (Knowledge is thus mechanically
suicidal - agreement devalues the object while speculating on the ground,
the hymn to context): mind the fac. Names is of course is evidence. A thing
sa spy. Sense, being aesthetic, needs. And the modest avoidance. One all
over. A proviso eclectic (an epitaph for the past of numbers (a franchise
crime)), a traumatised nostalgia for the impasse opportune (a frictive
though sufficient condition) where the represent is undecidable, an
existential pun, then runs it up: Sure a subject's a subscription cop,
that's why I likes you.
I didn't know I thought that (the grace of politics, the sample medium)
(white is another word for this), a qualified device, a redundant lack,
inadequate cept as some surplus value (What pause?): Stat. (The reference
is to memory.) A sematics of Is what ain't grammatic where it's value's
it's negation (It, an Is in shades), a better else (else, the populist
pronoun) stands up: An accidental metaphor. Just coz the noun got into the
sentence first. I mean you call that a context? Function? The weight to
wait ratio, blessed and less and picture of regression, the subject is
privileged, a permute intentionale: The is catalytic - only the
intransitive looks like identity, agreement the proof, doubt the perversion
of Cop this. Fix the facts then decorate the lot. Catatonic. A word is
something starts with The. You can tell. Anyway that's what It intends. An
object, a privacy, as truth game, the magic of things I could've said,
whether, words is the unconscious of a sentence. And (Taking It, the opera)
treats the picture as a cure: We employ the poor to police us. You? And the
syllabic maids? Ordinarily, confessing chatter of it's wants would seem
enough and but here's the rub: nuns n jugs n butter just add up. The
subject does it's sublimated best to make sense, a two bit fancy: Being
it's own context, noun, a prejorative romance (knowledge, bourgeois chicken
love), all rhymes is pious, an imitated nod lo-cal. Smuggled into thought
by it's subtraction, the hollow sum's nostalgic what-is-the-they-of-this (a
speculation that exhausts itself in recognition) owns up to biz, an
aptitude for the present, a privation. In names. Satisfied. Well fuck you
too. Intention, one of the mediums of knowledge, a guilty measure in wet
pants fills the object with deductions, a greedy passive It what offers
itself as thought (consciousness the gay generic of thought) to
data barter and other bits of string. The past is here a ghetto. It only
looks self identical. Anyway, a thing is an I-decline in narrative. Point
blank (It takes a judge to confuse the stateless with utopia.). Pose. What
claims identity a form of innocence, a tin scruple. Vain. A thing is a
serious idea. An hysteria on loan (the ear acts as some sort of sacrificial
rhyme (guilt the left over of identity, a reproductive place-holder (music
is that accompanies silence) a shrugging spasmodic corpse)), a kid. But dad
didn deaden the masochis-(the ego is a satire of the event, a bank the
mirror hygiene of a name)-tic syncopated castrati, a nappy narra shopping
for a yella id, a parodic noculation gainst the cure submit, a
claustrophobia of ghosts and picture sills that cannibals commit, a gadget
zombie half life of. Techno teeve (you is some narsisstic detour) the dult
plug stuff n duck, the tool is on the button pluck, ah fuck
One cadaver two cadaver three cadaver teen, j j genital jingo, the
foetus-as-angel snuff cartoon, the paedophile is already the last adult. A
counterfeit surance gainst my personal pimp the gaze plays cud (a branded
feedback bit) and bust. I mean looking is something to do. A crypt
particular. And list. That selfs around, doesn make a cunt of difference
and then blanks out. The picture is depressed. The idea idea is anyway
invariably psychotic. Understanding is only practised by the visually
impaired. Up yours, medium is only ever a set. Propaganda being that argued
by the trivial (information the synonym for fear), a telepathy of nits n
itches that make of me a bag (Metaphor, the mourning media, admits no
theft), a saggy. Maths. A schiz candy. An etiquette. Fictional diction.
Adequate.
(Capital is a service. A cost. Profit a rent-a-tax on choice (a fact is a
hole worn by agreement, it decorates use (truth the defense mechanism,
technically an afterthought, is thus a question of manners)) or noise.
Rhetorically cute, the private (a chair is a self-fulfilling prophecy) is a
failure of the evidence it employs (guilt is the poverty of proof, a
corrupt aphorism (to explain is to predict in pink) of haiku tutu and the
syllabites). And though only the voyeur be proud, sense the melancholic of
last resort models the extra cliche-inhibited as-if, a puerile, an averaged
axiom and aints. (A frame is how equilibrium defines it's ject, a bias that
invents the past in ord t mine, a package that expects. (Nouns mime the
loop, a dictionary of terms. They're uninterestingly impossible. (Economics
is a perfect therapy. And invisible: Things are unconscious coz they's
infinitives. A surface edge fact without batteries, a passive accident, the
idea effect - simulacra is the name of a tomata.))) Some mad zero sum
amateur irony the cynic pitches in: it too fuckin faux to buy that bitch:
it inging-a-lings what an anyway French fact puts out and them coz decked
in justs and lacks and flash thats: What is stupid for Greek. A yawn that
exhausts the predicate. Like a yes what got there fore, a yoyo fix picture
of evidence. Game. Like gerund. Fuckin flies. And the dditional dipthongs
(both Two and The do dream in vowel), and how)
A surplus of meaning (the proof of the unconscious (knowledge as
transference (anxiety is the model of knowledge) (fuckin A), a mediocre
fact)): Reason fucks. A hot tip apriori, positivism of boredom,
narcissistic doubt, an afterimage - all symptoms are pathologies - what
uses like to cover an idea, a a concrete. The same, a plastic memory (it
projects (the question is the practical defense of the answer
(misunderstanding is just the pretty form of compliance)) a substitute
amnesiac third degree, a glue) ghosts the chat that: Displacement
disappoints the economy of explanation (wanting is the defensive response
to having, a condensed compromise): Description, a cracked up rationale
ambivalent and all (the a la of a mind, an): Coz's next, a
juxtapose don't y know of things (the attempt at boredom) and their
neurotics, a pain-and-other-distractions you're-it blabbermouth of: Logic,
the plural of dumb, a three-four packet of (a subject is a therapy with
it's measurement snip off) chips (memory, the attempted otherwise, an ill
exercise in taste), a decorate of The (nope, the joke, the slapstick snitch
compulsive (I mean a fact is just a other fact in disguise)), silence is
just a pun on rhyme: Jealous of the responsibility, the masochist reflects
on more: Examples shame what they deduce, the pitch of soap. Explanation,
blind theft (stuff, the form of being fucked), a twee dislusion, cause
(Yes, the analytic of No (being known (licorice is the proof of facts), the
object of experience (experience (some normative use) the plagiarist))),
having owt t say's surely a style of think, dentity some but category
mistake (that two be a form of propaganda for two, a yellow proof, fails to
it be four - that meaning be therapeutic to the ject is thus too
reflexively fair). But a facts don't look nothing like a cure, time is one
sick bun (space some adolescent trickle down), a most psychosis-(grammar is
not a little paranoid, a tick tack trauma)-ist - symptoms is extra. A
tantrum of automantic looks (the evidence is heroic, a hinge of): The past
it is a modest proof ha ha ha. A rumour soon, a crack pet epileptic par
(the best confessed) ambivalent (the idea that arrogates to itself the
melancholic) and (And is a fantasy (sadistic)) gadget - facts do sad to
pass the time and (and) then lay claim. A franchise tract, a essanem fing
tht libidinals the It with string (the it lobotomy): Shit a brick. Me wig
is fit. Wz did. A lid. A bib techno biddable what sublimates stupidity as
It (To hypnotise the like with look, sook): A fat fax lacks the hook that
milk calls tit, a pack of bits, and so knows dick, the fraudulently tick,
of took. (A prick is not a a pair of pants but pin the crotch of. Put. It
takes politician to test reality with ad.) A cute. What suits. A crook cop
of. A squiz. Negation, some sort of anthropomorphicly itchy axiom has and a
crush, a full infatuate on you, a pseudo it, a pill t