Conscious Cut-up #6,787,659 (Retracing A Vehicle To Celtic Heaven or Musings on Imagery)

Time will run out and it may not say goodbye . .
One day all words will escape . . Meaning none will register.
Through zero sums will strands apply through the latent and waking forces and entities of thought and memory.
So . . I practice Sun Face.
One million Earths to fit inside . . The mouth . . Healthy and wide. Swallowing whole.
Liquid statues swirl, swing and migrate . . No distinction of form needed or unknown . . Fluctuation in rapidly evolving communities . . Guaranteed all, guaranteed nothing . . Signals in consumptive throws of radiation homes . . All souls . . Touch and go.
Moon crater, freckle, court jester, couch potato . . Countenance float. Countenance drip. Countenance drive. Countenance hive.
Living measures stretch legs to beyond infinity . . In pitch black rocking chairs . . Obsidian tongue . . Aboriginal physician staying busy in the kitchen . . Women bathing . . Gnats thunder streak clapping.
A pink rotary phone explodes . . Green slime all over everything . . A mirror reflects the ocean, the forest, birth and death, all at once. Shatters and melts . . Plenty of room . . Plenty of anything.