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Empty cards grinned back at the empty line upon his face. Shapes mingled with credit statements and demanding electronic boxes, static blooming in each clash.

pass to triangle out of own hands and into theirs...totality given over to appendage located elsewhere...

there are more problems to be had...

i give you heart for ripping and shredding and vein-mingling...

WE DO NOT WANT HEART...TIME IS NOW NOW IS TIME to find credit proper agency finds you lacking and wanting but what else can be seen in eyes and mouth and face disrespect finds no home here papers say you lose levels as yourself experience change to one stunted by chance life renewed within construct one after another answered piecemeal...

He found himself speaking to nothing, to a machine that stole from his hand and strove to destroy peace of mind. Could it be hatred that wore at everything or forgiveness? The dance had thrown him into standard steps of regress and anomie. And he followed, not mindlessly, without mistake or reproach, each step one step closer to finding redemption. It was guilt that kept him rooted in mind, that drew response from one set of chords to another. To mention anomie would mean an invocation of true discourse between mindful beings. This was different. The conversation had ended and he was no closer to anything. Clothes began to appear as he strode away, brilliant hints of azure and maroon that wrapped about him in a disaffected embrace. The tools of the kitchen clattered, their din a mad grab for attention and money. Coffee might have been a choice on another day, but today was a day of meetings and greetings.

or was it time...

A coin rang in the pot and the slow drip hissed. Those things had become precious now, their jingle gone. He moved to the door with no intention of opening it.

It snapped in jangling tones of unerring red. He found no center or standard to look out from, and so ate and drank its statements as the insane might the sand. Life touched him just then and he found himself spinning about the bars, his life a perpetuality he endured with a manufactured alacrity. He had to chop chop chop it away. For there they stood, grinning faceplate and sad-faced man, one to the other unknown, one to the other a drain. And he cried in pain and anguish and torment, all counterfeit, all begging for something.

does it know my self...

The question was answered in two words.

FIVE PIECES...

and so on...