Disintegration to find it, I.

An inability to write is an inability to write is not having anything to say no not having nothing to say but without the words to write down what is on my mind, to hear what is on my mind, to see it and translate it into words not having the language that can make it sound like it sounds in the sounding shell of my mind. My cunt is on my mind.

But without words to write what I think it is to hear what is on my mind, to see and translate the words which have no language which can make it sound like it sounds in the shell of my skull. My vagina is on my mind but did not write it down, what is it seems to me that what is heard as I can remember,

to see it and load it is not a language

can here but be achieved
but did not write it down, then what is my impression that what is heard as I can remember,
Can not write can not write, is not no no no no say, my vagina is my thoughts.
Inability to write is not able to write is nothing
to say anything, nothing
to say but no
words to write

what I think is what is heard on my mind, to see and those without language, which can make it speak but did not write it down, it seems what is for me that which is heard as I can remember, to see it, tell someone what to say, but not the words to write what I think is what you hear of my mind, see, and without the language, which can be done. Cunt

mind.

(I went to the vivid desert for a drive and came out dry, too dry,
I've been too dry too long, far too
long. I'm going back to the coast to get rained on.

Tall trees.

I want to get wet.

I want the sting of cold rain on my face and in my heart, grey clouds and soft light breaking through all over me. I want to stand on my skin and wash the dust out of my veins, stand on the streaming streets water courses drains rivulets running through the lines in my face, my hair, swim down the street, flow down the drains into the glassy harbour.)

I would like to be a thorn coast, was Rain. My face and in my heart, grey clouds and soft light to break the All I.

flow in the street
river runs through the line rains, my face, my Hair, swimming, in the street drains flow down to the glassy harbour
grey clouds and soft light breaking through all over me
I want to position your skin, wash the dust off my veins and streaming on the street run through the lines of your face, my Human hair, bathe the street, the flow down the drains into the harbour. and the light on all questions. I want your skin, wash the dust off my veins and on the city roads I

Human hair, bathe in the street, the flow down drains into wine.

(I have vivid desert, drive, and left the dry, very dry. I was too too long, too long. I will return to vein and urban roads sewage water rivulets running through the lines of my face, I Human, swimming in the street, drainage flows into the vitreous port.)

Long tree. I want to get a drink. I want a cold rain and a bitter
all questions. I'm your skin to place.

There's only enough room for one in here, you and me. Back here, again, drinking flowers,

but better listening, listening this time to the soft music, gentle chords lightly on the tendons in my neck, my throat, the breathe in my throat, soft pause. Each string buzz is a caress on the nerve centre spinal messenger of flesh, warm blood flow, flow, buzz, shiver and shift in my seat. Neither of us knows what the sound of your fingers sliding down the strings is called.
Only enough space here, you and me. water flowers, only better
Listen, listen to the music this time, gentle chords of the tendon gently on my neck, my throat, breathing in my throat soft suspended. Each string expression is a messenger caressing the flesh nerve spine, the warm blood flow, flow, word of mouth, trembling and change behind. Neither of us unknows
theunvoice of your finger
s down the string.
How it feels! under particular my epidermis, I know the coordinates. It is nerve stroking, running fingers under my string, lips, your teeth? How did the teeth of Jimmy Hendrix call it?
Back here again, water flowers Listen, listen to the music this time
Back here again, but better
listening, hearing this time, soft music, gently chords lightly on the tendons in my neck, my throat, and breath in my throat, the soft break. Each string buzz is petting us, central, nervous, spinal messenger flesh, warm blood flow, flow, buzz, shiver and shift in my place. Neither of us knows.
Not only enough for a room here. listen, listen
time,
skinware, music, chords gentle light
on the tendons in the neck, infringe each line is bothering happy,
scarred Not all of us knows
what is the sound scald
I only enough for me here.
How to feel! I know the coordinates. This is a touch nervous, run the string in my fingers, lips and teeth?
feel
He is stroking my cheek, running his fingers in my string, lips, play it
It feels like! It is stroking the cheek, running his fingers in the string, each, that?

Your voice on the back of my neck I'd call pulling each tendon string and playing chords that tingle a vibration that loosens the sense from my brain cells. I don't know. But in some language I'm sure they do.
Your voice in the back each string playing chor'ds that tingle a vibration that loosens mind my brain
I do not know. But in some language I’m sure.
In a language where the sun turns skin to silk, silk to honey and you lick down to raw blood cells in a landscape of hot moist deep green big leaved ancient trees, where you could open my chest and place the light of the moon inside there, to tide cast my moods in a flood of pleasure tears, wet and sticky, creamy and hot.
An old wet hot tide, merging in my blood. Rising up in that language where they bring you pleasure on a platter and smear it all over your face, one day I'll find the century of that language.
A language of the sun to the skin of silk, silk, with honey and you to primitive blood cells in the hot and humid landscape of dark green leaves of the big old trees become, where you open my chest and place it in view of the moon, through the I feeling happy to cast a flood of tears. Heat the old trend, the integration in my blood. The rise of the language, they bring you pleasure and smear it
one day I will find the language of the Century
A language of the sun to the skin of silk, silk, with honey and lick you to primitive blood cells pleasure all the disc and smear your face, one day
The purpose of a language, where you suck down the raw blood cells
you can open and place the light inside the moon, the tides cast my feelings in the pleasure of the flow of tears, wet and gooey, creamy and hot.
Old wet hot tides, the merging in my blood.
pleasure to have and smear the whole of your heart
honey raw blood cells hot wet deep
inside the moon the tides cast emotions of joy flows tears

Old hot wet flood, a combination of the blood. The mass obtained by the language, if it will be fun bowls and smear the whole of your face, one day, I see the age of this language. Arse.
( expulsion vivid desert-dry, too dry, been too dry too long, too long. go back to the coast of Rain. Tall trees. be wet. be a thorn in my face and in my heart grey clouds and soft light to break the dust from a vein, the flow from the street, swimming. Just enough space here, you and me. Neither Your voice, my neck nor I. Climb the language. )
older, where you can open
and set it
in view of the moon
through feeling like
my tears flood,
wet
sticky
hot
hair,
to music from the vertebral line, the hot blood flow, the flow of breath, chills, and change.
is called the line. How do I know! I know. Worried?
the chain of my fingers, and it?
when can you
in the light of the moon through a sense of how to cast my flood (I intended to send vivid dry desert, very dry, I too long, too long was established. I went to go coastal rain. Uzun trees. Went to be wet. (To face my heart, grey clouds and soft light are all violations. To me your skin from the dust takes. Wash the vessels, the river goes to the streets over the street rivulets, wire, face, hair, baths, glass, drain all time into the curve of the flow.) enough! There’s space for me here. Here again, sandalwood, patchouli just the music now, flesh tones, and light tones, in my throat, to listen to listen to my soft suspension. If a string expression is a message from the vertebral line to tender cheek, warm blood flow, breathing, chills, and site of the flow it is not. We all have these fingers. How do I know! the brain cells are shaking. I do not know. Language Sunday silk, leather, silk, honey and hot and humid, dark green, open when you smydalthen this month how to light in a sense through the old blood cells to colours’ tears, wetness, stickiness and my master’s songs. Heat former tendency, blood integrity. Language is climbing, you scratch your face to bring joy and one day you can find the art of English.)


What do you think of me, however, to want
not to write something for someone
my mind to hear you to impotence, a look and language
which can be done without. I explained my idea of the vagina.
Can not write, as I remember Can not write a no no no no, not to speak, write, not what it is for me to hear what he, like seeing
is accessible. I think my vagina is.
Rain in months.
Long tree.
I want to get a drink. I want a cold rain and a bitter
On my face and heart, grey clouds and light
all questions. I'm your skin to place, I want to wash the dust
and urban roads and
sewage water running I
flow into the drain.)
flowers
,
He is coming! Under the skin, I know the coordinates. This is runningfingers his fingers Stroking the cheek
raw honey skin and blood cells you and the moon light sea joy to open the dumb feelings, my tears flow, PG, creamy wet and hot. The old hot wet flood, a combining of blood. Achieved with a collective language, it will be fun and a bowl scratch parchment, one day, this.
I call back in a voice, tone and each line and the game pulled tender vibration to lose my brain's memory cells tingling. I do not know. However, some languages, we believe that for this.