holy shit!!!

The Archbishop described in reflex foam the limit of its shredded-with-glass breathing antic to posit, if we could call it that, an inverted species of reasoning that indiscriminately records/ distorts “speech acts of a serious nature” with undisguised penological-eye-metaphors in place of vintage beast wax. What's the point. The tome, he whacks open and, in the process, exhibits a “more complex than usual” finger array as part, or indeed whole, of her (automatic) pencil holding strategy, extrapolates “this cat is successfully performing an impression of a triangle”. What is most alarming about this “artefact in the wilderness” is the negligence with which “the critic as an autonomous thinking-thing” regards the matrix of nuances that constitute contemporary standards in vertigo pocket stitching; what can be said on the matter of the vaguely embossed buttock has most certainly not been said, but what kind of society has hitherto found itself sufficiently well located (in a cultural sense) to embark upon such a project, or would dare? For daring is what differentiates us, the slugs of love, from them, the earth slug fatigue and breathlessness. Now give him back him squash racket, Archibishop, or suffer ununfatwa.