insasmuch as ye tepid roundabout, carpet padding lost sea foam green whiskey crack, the average Klipschster scratches his frontal lobe, portruding like the overhang of the Fiat Uno 60 to 0 stopping distance while shaking the 1800s tobacco tin that mimics the lost shaving stick container where the baby teeth rattle after the prom dress holder wandered into the second bedroom where no one goes since the door was shut, the last time at 2pm pre funeral, post trauma, sideways hat trick, lost on all who read one word out of three, where the intersection of perception and reality meet with literal ironclad, hoping to get one last throwback before she notices him gone