Will the Piano Function Probably (Boundless Energy)

the table isn't exactly intentional: it had to be a table. this insistence stays here. the table is red because that's what happens when you stain it red. it has its history, no more than a living boulder. memories occur, seeding a function that congratulates the present day for everything that heaped up. here then is the utmost red table on which a computer can be placed. my hands are the new matter, placed on the computer. do my fingers dance, or shall we just say they type words? wiggle toes while sitting. the wonder concerns how these words, in a world of obituaries, ruffle the air in a particular. like a red table, that is, that was of my father, and his mother before, and I don't know more direction than that. I return to the red table because I write of the place where the minute happens now. tho thoughts can involve Saturn, the retired god or the planet. no, death of someone, that's a pinch. no, something igneous, when we have time. time represents the red table insofar as a process of stasis redeems the idea that thinking goes on. on is the troubling part, what does a preposition mean when it has nothing to hold? do we need rumours of life on Pluto, or can we be satisfied to know that Saturn is bigger than Toronto and the moon (Luna) combined. Beethoven wrote that poem called Claire de Lune. such a device holds the bridge in place.