Today's banjos of tomorrow
Somebody was naked at the wake. Gumby or Isabelle Huppert. Some body. They, as in He or She or Both, were wearing hairnet(s) and grinding the Colombian. I picked a scab and watched the time. What Have You, still dans la nudité, coughed up ballpoint pens and hemorrhaged anodyne. Somebody wrote sympathy cards for a living.
And that clock was a mess, emotionally. You didn't want to punch it. So naturally, everyone pretended to pray for more skin. Since they were stuck there. It was the custom. The sound of my picking was not the custom. Nor was it hypo-allergenic. Not like today's banjos of tomorrow. The Colombian had no problem, but the customers.
The grieving: they like their banjos.
I asked myself to leave. All I could hear were banjos ticking. The sound made me sneeze in French. Crescendo decrescendo. Con gusto. Somebody or What Have You had extra tissue(s).
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