Film Class

Eric Trondson-Clinger

The tie-dyed wonder is in da house, but not one look from the Man, plenty of looks from the girl with the funny bangs. I am the last and the giant pink fingernail comes down upon the index finger. The Man, ever oblivious, understands none and says all in an effervescent Orsonian mode, unlike any in his film noir crowd. They of the magic mirror maze phase, the raging raft recession, always seeming and thinking of the um and the ah. The evil of the orb, the beat of the good. The green grey ball beaten by the nail of the old. The incredibly invincible Man has turned his head unto his hand and the voluptuous mouth is no more as all is propelled to cotton hell. Abstraction negated bye the labels, obscurity succumbs to the lapels of the LaBelles in the daily Dali. From the dust, of the dust, to be of the dust while crustaceans are dusty in the everglowing field of dogs waiting for the first fellatio of the feline felching the fine and the few.

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