Lawful—the apple falls and bla bla. The rot prohibits me from enjoying this episode of Jeopardy. Guesses sentinel each of my teeth, chomp chomp. These definitions of success depress me—yes the television is expensive! Yes the warehouse district fits small holiday trees in each office window. It is Christmas in this desert, you better get right and gift. I’ve got no slots left for tchotchkes, Daddies, I want better thoughts! The law prohibits the ribcage’s glimmer. What is in the body ought slip out. Custom dictates that my unwrappable abstractions stay hidden—the filthy unreal! Yes the old strip malls are prostrate before our new Gods. Yes, the commerce now comes palm-lined! We have shipped in the organics and the shabby-chic, and yes our flags are finally non-candescent and ash resistant—given this crisper reign. The law lists all infinities. Yes, they are aflame! Custom prohibits bliss, conflagration, mystery. To slip on the fallen fruit, however, is not forbidden, so long as the celebrity guest brands slip and fall. We have walled ourselves in, and the island has voted us off of it. The host’s nose needs blowing. Family, I’ve come home and am lonelier for it.
