A Missing Triceratops Fossil

You already know the story and the answers are in your eyes, but wait, tonight, now 10:36 pm, here in my room, (a room I will have to move out of in two weeks to a place yet-undecided), where I recall the facts pertaining to the body of a circumstance I know, a circumstance not too unusual to anybody who has eyes laid upon this screen watching a train go by. We hear it in the distance, behind the stories of the walls we go talking to each day, and receive a paycheck for at the end of the week, like at the end of a deep long sigh, when all you want to do is come home and turn on a b, or maybe even a c, grade movie. You turn the movie on and it’s another one of those terrible horror flicks that’s just too much fun to ignore; look she’s getting her head bitten off by that creature. And just when she’s dead the creature can’t decide where to go or what to do, in fact it appears the creature is behind your eyes; and this is the circumstance of the body I was telling you about earlier. It happened a long time ago. People were murdered for having desires. And the murderers had children and some of the children were smart enough to either camouflage in some pretty drastic ways, (were those stones of the castle walls or??…never mind), and some were lucky enough to run away. When the lucky ones got away, it created a quality of intelligence that gripped the ropes of uncertainty, holding on for dear life while swaying over the creature-of-time; and indeed it was uncertain if the person gripping would suddenly let go and drop into the jaws of the creature, however, the people that did escape developed an interesting behavior towards food, while the people who were devoured, developed an interesting behavior towards sex. Now somewhere the behaviors of these different strands of survival did overlap, and this is what brings us to the body of the circumstance, which we were discussing previously, when I had mentioned the museum was missing a pertinent triceratops fossil, which a curator must’ve misplaced by accident, or perhaps had even stolen. The conglomeration of mutilated trust in the genitals, the necessity to have ice-cream all the time, and the farmer’s hand-made beautiful frame for hanging a portrait surrounding the country and the room I currently dwell in–all have one thing in common, the body–because when I looked back to see if she was with me…you know how it goes…but at least we have the ability to speak and that’s a promising premise to start with; hearing the train, and knowing that in the distance, the coal it carries to keep the portrait in the farmer’s frame happy, is the very substance which has beauty locked by the confines of what negates its theatrical possibilities, negotiating the whens and hows, so that, when the internet radio advertisement finally steps out onto the stage, it is known to all of us, the behavioral familiarization of what it is to speak to one another. A: “It all happened so fast,” B: “yes it did.” A beautiful body in beautiful clothes–none of which resembles the I who lives in the room I dwell in, but the I of the creature that can’t stop strangling energy to get the rectangular size right. I know this lady who is in the process of becoming curious on how she’ll chop or blowtorch its head off; it will make a great indie film when it’s finally made. At the time of the film’s finish, however, the film will no longer be a film but a rebellion against the survival techniques of good luck and dropping into the jaws of the creature. Such a “revolution will not be ized” and will fade into the decay of the distant train whistle, as the farmer’s portrait will remain unscathed. And when this will occur, the frame which the portrait is in, will change walls and the walls which use color to make shape to keep the portrait unscathed will change, but the quality of change will remain not youtube-ized and therefor non-existant in the theatrics of the circumstance of the body. But now that I’m old and grey, living in a house built with rooms of consistent transition, with wrinkled hands like translucent paper, (perfect for tracing over but not durable for any replication process), the world has forgotten its copy of social behavior and the death of the creature within the body of circumstance is long dead without a sketch to follow. Though you already know the story, finally I can lay down and die, someone else will have to fill you in on the details.

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