Dear Dust Bunny,

I realize it wasn't my turn to write to you but I took your email to me and did a cut-up of it, because I like to find out what the language behind the language is saying sometimes. I do this to my own words all the time to try to suss out what my selves are really saying to my self.

Anyway, here's some of what I found...

Art and assholes explain.

Makes me feel the universe's that cart that has such a moral/critical function.

Acknowledging that you live is not a novel.

Stupid and cartoonish the world's halfhearted empathy.

You will be its wheel of disease.

I'm not a parable about life or a unicorn...

If only glass could understand life.

When I lay I can't explain.

I am offering to angrily write you existence.

Buy from other radiation. I value that.

The Dust Bunny wanted perched with a menagerie.

I fell, whether animal or any coma but separated from It was like a coming into a coming or into a hearing.

I don't believe freaks get paid for that moment on earth.

Fetch is the artist.

Only pass the asshole.

Only pass the asshole on by shoving reading.

I'm sorry I was so long in consciousness.

Missing experience, some deflective shatter...

Art evenly divided between susceptible anthropomorphisms is Whoops!

Maybe will be something. Maybe an asshole quandary exists in you as in me.

I am wearing makeup as I get my crowbar.Because I am getting ready to go on a date.



WTF?!

Were you really saying those things to me secretly?

You sound like Robert Smithson, but with a sense of humor.

I have to go now. I have an appointment.

Write me back something snarly.

xo Glass Unicorn