How page numbers are distracting in this modern age of count-downs, and how, for a more relaxed reading, we should eliminate all page numbers, if that is even possible in this world of stiff men and cruel obligation.

HHHHHH how the hot spider of the andes named the bora bora spider flexes its muscles and shoots hot steam at would-be intruders, at potential lovers also, how the steam is caught in fine and excellent webs, pulling off and forming into tight-knit bubbles carrying the unborn children of the spiders up and a certain, particular, distance away.

everything I learned about weaving stories I learned from my own loose interpretations of reading Borges “unmentored”; dangerous, and tethered to myself.

 
 
 
 

hhhhhhhhhhhh howohwowohwohwhohwowhohwwowohwoowowhowhowohwohowowohwo hoowow ohwowohwowohoh whoho o ow ow ohw howohw w ho woh whwhowhoohwohw ohw how hoowhoh whow h who woho woh wow ho wohwohhowhowohwo hhowohwohw ohwohwohowohwhowohwohowohwowhowohwohwoowhowwohhowwow !!!!
 

Leh issing glow is missing gloes, eat choco lettes and mira culls, show me your personality. bird has come to the sailor. who has come to the tiger. come over see. my greed will cure your greed.
 
 

To hat, to hide, to rock, to ride.
 

The lake rollled over as a n un feeling rollover rocking red rock watch rizzed raun, raun the main man of the big disc rantrap tight, tight tight tight dizz, dog.
 
 
 

The thirsty robot drank a tall ton of fizzing blue soda water, then smacked his lips with the back of his hand. “Ah, ah, ah ahhh,” he said, relishing the last drop. “That feels good to my robo-innards. I can feel them buzz-buzzing up!” He swiveled, danced, and shook. His eyes popped and his hands raised to the ceiling. He belched, and laughed. “To be a robot these days!” he said, with a twinkle in his shiny robot view-finder. “What fun!”
 
 

Tehytf ht t they hdd rthe old israeli honor guard sat at the left bank and watched all the palestinians come and go down. “Come, let’s salute them wiht our hats,” and they bared their teeeth and shot old muskets into the air.
 

A frog with a runner’s gait and pork-bellied hat, apologising to the nearest hog. “Sorry for taking your belly fat, old chum, it just made the most charming top!”
            The nearest hog snarling and saying that’s quite all right, that’s quite all right really, it’s been a while since I’ve tasted live, squirming frog.
 

ALICE brushed the small foot of her left shoe.

            “I hate to leave it all marked up by the grit and sand,” she said.
            Norman agreed.
 
 

André thought about how it is hard to commit to a thing such as straight typing but how he likes it also and how he is, for whatever reason, committed to teaching it to himself right now. He remembers how once he typed up long, three thousand word chapters in one sitting each and spent the following weeks planning how his story would fight for brief life and then peter out and die.

For the reader and the product it can not all be about process. But in this tired and dead world it must be a little bit about process, to get people excited about walking around and stubbing their toes.

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