Adam Varab

We, the accord, have listened and observed. We, the accord, have seen your testament, arguments and disputes. The accord wants to thank you greatly. Thank you Adrian Furth. Thank you Ms. Greenhouse. We, the accord under the agreement of helotism and upmost seldom, sit here as the accord and as the body of the courtroom. On this fourth day of beneficial exchange we sit here
We, the accord look forward. Upon us. Away from our large quilted desks. We look to you. We look for referendum. We look for whom we wish to withhold and bargain with. As see truth for its exchangled lien for whom we are. We, the accord are not to dwell. We are to open and anew the chips of society and acquit the judges rule. We, the accord. A-Accorded devine pedestrians, now adopt your posture.
Now on the 17th day of powder dosing we cannot unsee what's in front of us. These drunken rooms of phantom temptation is a given. Our now morbid truth have us to you the prestige of our emotional moment. We, the accord accommodate, simultaneously withdraw such abuse that such characters stature of penetrable offerings. Such as I am abundance too. Chest of golden temptation. Alike offerings for hope and godlike abilities expect people not only themselves but, people's abilities. Offerings are roadkill. Only for the few. And intentional for all. For the personal. We the accord deal with personal warmth.
Unlike castles. Which uphold the family-name. That has been built outward from where the needed infrastructure and culture origins from. Otherly withhold a balance between peasants and what needed crops that seldom export define us. Such grain what we love, the feudal lords undertake. Unlike the base. The crypt heals. As the lairs water gravel feeds the moan. A heat can be heard as echoes of more to offer you welcome

They, the accord, stand accused. As we sit around me. Sit in accustomed attire. Without and audience of your view. You see nothing and point your self towards truth. A truth wich see shape gains its architecture by corners of abusement. Tentacles that only show its arms in viewpoint of intention. Your blind-eye doesn gain you a soul. It gains you only fairness. An obstructed wellness you only consider within the lines of offence. A view of guilt is as much truth as shame burdens the offended. Blood Boiling silence. They, the accord upheave no more heat that those who seek an abundance within themselves. The beautiful simplicity of petty crime shows us the uplifting of a soul and repent to be recognised with the iris. Not the mind's-eye.
Frances Patton and Galeway Patton are also to be thanked in this matter and shown fit of questionable beings as our own sight.
They, the accord slid between the seeing feel and senses understanding of what wants to reveal its attack. Like the blind engineer's, flare opens his sight for a moments repent. Such benumbed meadows circle your stole.

We, the accord flicure ernest and denounce in our chamber of any to sucume the I. We lay heavy on the seesaw to balance the animated object with the hellhound. Also and somewhat seldom indulging in the flight in hawks and murmur. Such silent wills must be so we, the accord can understand the I to be an I. Because and just and reprehensible within its means. No other or fortified entity that stands around us forgo our soulful machinery. We, the accord, must see doings as life as desperate responses. We sit around the accord listening away from trajectory, so we can see. Not to neglect sight but hinder such sight that so never means flatten any entity when it is but into story. We, the accord imitate that crypt that you so sit in alone. That place that you so have to whispure to gain your own voice without echo. Such tiles scratch when you move, so you are met with presence.
We, the accord convolt at a centerfield monolith to be denied such satisfaction. Arbitrary a magnificent curvature we so often are met with. Reactionary withdraws itself the smallest action of turns of that exact sight you so eager demand. We, the accord are to be looked at. As the matter. The matter at hand to resolve the abundance that you, yourself look to. Dismounting here is as timely the incentive, as so is the hound. We, the accord systematically harmonize in the dim voicing for our scarcity only enhances the biases strategic approval. We are sat. As you are set. This downhill hexagonal pyramid leaves you on top. For you to be heard and us at the bottom to listen.

Every so often we hear these words. These abolitions of burdenings. Forgoing oneself. Withering the pendant. A-A-accorded. Forthcomings of security and well thought forthought that we, the accorded undergo the exact procedure. As Alexandrian pointed out in her statement. The everso rules of misconduct withhold within its means of cultural accept. And we must understand of such opinions overmine the accord. They, the accord, wish so, to dissolve oneself. But dogma transittens give such silents of yours away. Biofeedback training is what it is. But interaction through aggregators, collecting the distribution of such trust of yours. Filtering us or owning up to this positioning and our upheave. Largely this feasibility grants you. They, the accord, are so self soothing that you forget to calculate the unexpected. Ripe goes within confidence that you feel confronted. Self soothing is practised on our parts. In our court gouging respect. Gaining levels aparted between our seldom eagerness. Everyso, they are treated so lovely. So airy and bathed in the accord that aggregators gain a person. Gain an extract. So sweet a hardening that soothing is persuasive.
They, the accord, are not trees or bushes. They truly give in. Even in their drought, no cathedral is expected in doing. Add platforms to that, add an external cameo, add a viscous question to that, and that's how they, the accord, look upon thee. No doubt this blind vision makes us, but into this.Though the form has elastic edges. I suggest we scatter your circle and return to a root system formation. To regain duality and obtain a non-hybrid speech that accepts instead of being just ready.

We, the accord will circulate outward in nebula. In the troth tradition, moving in friction opposite from each other. Withering each other's spectacles. Moving to an inner sim. That in such circulation formats always go left on the 9th swing. We, the accord, understand such measures that a line in countable direction are suitable in causes that inflict a singulare deposit. An organ or a ghastly matter. Lesser or larger. Speak to each other in each empared state. Lesser or larger, we do understand, Digging, Digging, Digging. This atmosphere. This whispering wind. This tingling feeling. Not knowing where the wind blows. Looking for a hymns direction. This is the direction. A capable swarm untethered, circulate moving in sinknisity. Such currents estimate sheer wilderness. Such a stare. Inherent direction will be transient and stride will be hushed as precarious hazards. The direction will be dismal. But as graceful as stakes will be spread. The direction will have importants. As such friction will move inward to expect collision whent sinknisity is warnt out. This direction, deleporate ent vows each established coalision. Not vowed as larger stacks. Each pile's visage slipping down beneath, at a curve. Hatchings splitting up to more. Nevertheless directions under a bondash coasul to that friction be it only the distance that counts for the aftereffect. What direction ceases to be when another overlaps and continues to Dig. Dig, Dig.
As you state this rooms prohibition seldom undergoes its quadrants. Such advocations speak as when the accords limits become limitations and its material end vaperize. As we look with our eyes. Squinting them open, wet and hasty when we look up to you. This direction, weaseling at you from around the corner. Hearing you as you were nipling our cloth. But only remarking your shape, insinuating your intention by only what we can see. Appeal to this distance is set forth. Whilst knowing hindering was its sub-factor. The direction. Watching it diminish and formulate away from its angles. Into draped hangin causality. This distance becomes longer between us yet your shape enlarging away from its background. This direction. Omnidirectional. Degenerate transition dued into existence. Until you dwell in front of me. Right there up front.

I remember how someone like you look like. Whilst I remark the direction turning. And somehow forgetting fast thereafter. This direction's compulsion therefore is at will as its opservants. It´s patent on the dark as it sees no other way than direction. Absolvement of an accord will then thrive at the blnd ability such hazed backgrounds give foreground its proper attention. Behaved. Adults intuned with lies sat in eyes length. On its side it would only be companions, treaded as our friends. This direction is too steady for either side to withhold, so they simply aren't. I went out of that before. This swaddle, my mouth unstable turningnorth-east trying to aline with your collarbone level. being it the only thing, in this thing, that holds state. Stretching being as much a state that is to dig. And is to congregate more of it to surpass, a loathing state. Again and again.
And again, wishful thinking put out by the thought that the accord was just to be surpassed. And this the same. And my now allowed I, to only slowly treample at the sight of you before slipping down in direction. The fast strings of surfaces glowing and the hard shifts to only be acknowledged by the next thought. Having to choose between delirium, casual thought or dialectic banter or plain old gesture. An inquiry to such a contentious issue, perhaps it is this feeling the Troth provoke. Slouching through territory, only looking ahead of yourself, being that ahead is moving towards you. I, simply is not allowed here. A seldom interdependence. A linkitch of domestic communication, if not hid away. Far from agreement, a symbiotic fidelity, however, seeing you moving towards me. Oscillating recularey between you disengaging sway with the direction and your glorified stare being armored every 18th recursive cycle. It is as if we are switching seats to make way for the direction. Be it, this direction.

Diggin' at a Curve