revolver

It’s no small feat to make one’s way. It requires an understanding of the metaphysics between one’s self and the objects that orbit one’s self. It would have been no surprise to Molly and her objugates if she had awakened one morning and wished for a kind of normal that comes without explanations. But Molly’s normal came with an urgent request for the revolver. She fitted herself and boosted, earmarking destinations little by little and quite by...she and she and she…

The pagoda before her bustled with reference. The least of which, the pole, who left because of the girl who loved, like so, ever so, in fact, just so. For if we give Molly the revolver, she will take it apart and rebuild the universe.

And not so simple many subjects harrowed she lay in bed. And did this for many minutes. So many, in fact, that calling them minutes would understate the maniness of them. Through the space between the curtain and the window she saw yarn (a dusty equivalent of rain). Maybe she’d cross her eyes and fall back to sleep.

She was pretty.

And [lo] there on her pillow a capsule shaped amoeba. Brackish and then finally the. A balmy thing she held between erstwhile blah blah blah and tiger lily bleh bleh bleh. But she’ll make her way. As the laid goat is ambulatory and able to suffice the pristine and dare I say [dare] scrumptious, we she he it they you us, shall by and by, and by all accounts, scooby (comma) doobie (comma) doo.

There is no limit to one’s willy-nilly.

It was now that Molly read the letter. But in a parastasis of saidbefores, no one writes letters any, uhm, longer. Not f. Or y. Or a consonant reacclimation of the punjabi, which had a sheen, thoughtful and unencumbered but was still [sidebar your honor] like this.

Bring me the burlap cockles Thurston.

Should Molly sit by the fire and listen to the violin while her homonym relishes different states of undress, philosophers will go through her drawers and search for truth in her lower vowels. They’ll find it and foretell events of one who entered for the implixic..imploaxic…implamative purpose of dropping the revolver. Right there. There. Over there. For her to see.

Here is an overview of the palisade. Please remember the date.

One surmises that the purpose of her visit is twofold:

1. to teach us how to dance on mud
2. so far and like pummel

Perhaps one surmised correctly but one can’t be sure of what one can’t be certain of. And...processing...I left the revolver by her side. As I walked away, boodle kitswinny erupted and the [then the] sting of such failure [instinctual].

Oh ache. Oh longing. Oh darn it.

Molly knew more than anyone that beauty was painful. To see it, heartbreaking. So much so [much so [much so]] that she would collapse in a heap and cry uncontrollably. And when she couldn’t for reasons "behind her sorrow" she clenched her jaw, jiggled in acknowledgment, and mumbled god save the queen. But she happily served the greatest and least seen tyrant of them all.

Never slow or idle, she (nervously) figgered the tringer. I stood with my camera ready to film when the jujube phalanx purportedly in a fit of rage (purported side effect of a good conscience) tasted the sting of reason’s pincers.

It was here that "Sad Molly the pingo" was introduced not for the benefit of humanity but for its definitive destruction. What happened to sad the pingo remains a mystery to this day. But Molly lay on the bed with the revolver and the cameras rolled. She was going to take it apart but first she moved the blanket to reveal her leg [pantyfruit]. What a gorgeous plot of scrubby. First the barrel. Then the spring action telemetry. When she removed the firing pin the left side of my face fell to the floor. By the time she had it in pieces strewn about the bed I was the second toe of my right foot.

Enter Cassius--

Shall I make a memory of thine fissure and strike at the breast of merriment? Oh noble chameleon of many coloured hues, tinges, and shades. Yonder.