I am monitoring every step of my actions. I strengthen myself by overshooting it in the now seen as something from yesterday. A quite passive abysmal procedure away from the fifty six.  Imbedded in unwanted contractions, as there is always more to it, and how to get rid of it. The  eighteen or three means merely curiosity to me.  The twelve means spinning around the silicon implant in dead tissue for better promiscuity. I have been branded a sleeper from the moment of conception. Pleasure seems stubborn when placed inside a circle of four. These numbers are completely unhelpful. I am still agonizing over the nineteen, a plural in suppressing my fury, two rubbed together long enough to fail clearly as ninety four. Six remains the culprit and therefore an instrument of my quick.Twenty one is the monument for sprouting a close shave. Endlessly twenty and twenty for seventy six, I still leave it in the table of numbers to scare myself. I usually bounce back from every challenge. The whitest annulled show. I as the twisted Westerner, toweling myself before complete vaporization, and more to the point of a broad assumption, toweling myself. I feel estranged enough to consider the eighty eight as a twenty one, all rolled into one. To disengage completely, demands a straight nine. Nothing more. The viral constraint is in its doom, stroked careful along a railroad. More than mere asphyxiation. There is whispering coming frombehind my washbasin.  Roughly as a six for ninety. It is not that it is a crime. All crime has to prosper close to its own discipline: have a look at twenty six. Thus no temptation to add to the vexing of urging it. Twelve resembles fine lace, and it is not fine lace as the testament of a minesweeper. Just a broken heart soaked in saltwater, heeling on cold steel. I am sucking this remote ideal, I train myself to complicate it as the most streamlined absence of thirty three. To make it not only chiefly, but to embalm it. To strain it more willingly, when it is dead over sixty eight. Comfort is rooted in its quest for familiarity. Three remains nine, which lifts a transduced middlebrow to a blowgun.  I am not going to cancel this. I represent the best of myself by not shaving it. For the unceremonious inside a nineteen or eight or even a sixty three, it should do just nicely. The net of paranoia, as we call it. Seen from the propensive of more than one disaster to have shaved it completely off, I have urged for an eighty and eighty three, when patience would have been better. The most spectacular belittling luxury was relying on mere velocity.  I gave it to a community with mostly filthy gussets.  A paradox in itself, a simultaneous six for forty six for tying better knots. 

numbersby John Watermann






One single toe piece forgotten in eiderdown, relating to twenty seven or twenty two. This gives it a solid core, the lust for burned nylon. And that it might be forty again. Generally speaking it is not likely to be two. But a play with numbers in a demented daybreak. The event not aloof like any urban damnation. I do participate by swinging a solid eighty. The enormity of it demands a fixed code. Tightly as thirty five for forty two. Like being inexplicably aroused by a saddlebag. All fate is anchored in a bad fallout. From the seedy process and more than a obsession, I have counted through it, vulgarizing the forty five by just mentioning it here. I might review it, simply as a punitive measure for my own good.Take seventeen for instance, as the statement of napalm.  It clearly is not seismographic. Nor hostility in a shaker. A mere standout in cybernetic irrelevance, strung to a blurred proposal. This though gives it clear focus, that it should reside elsewhere, while there is still enough appetite. Mingled with dust I could forget about it as something seen in the past, with some overlapping details. But not too many. Maybe a three or a nineteen, or even a plain six.All seriousness collapses in desire. More than one revolution for sixty seven and thirty two,  it finally remains just shame. The luxury of three to the dangling in active foam in such a way, that it is nearly antipodal,  is sensually very much like seventy over ninety. That high. No punishment was ever given to the four corners of nature. Understanding numbers carved into flesh is not magic. It merely gives meaning to the expansion of uncertainty. I usually mix  it for myself. That it should always have failed,  because of a poor eighty,  has always raised my suspicion. To make it more over. Or wetter. Or depress it on top of its quaintness. I could swear,  it is like visualizing numbers left forgotten in an archive. The device lurks somewhere between fact and fiction.  I am pampering this predatory lie and therefore can not overturn it. It is like an illegal starving to death, an aberration for keeping ones dignity, when left in the desert without water.  I have been rejected twice inside a stigmata ward.My actions are fixed to integers, echoing a meager ninety five and another eighty one. Paradoxes seem nearly always balanced. In the science of striping there is something strangely demanding. An uncertainty of not quite ready, which it is, when it is strictly serene. Barely a six for eleven, it is  thirty nine. One more reason to dance myself carefully away from it.