The scratch on
the record, would kinda make the record of time scream. It was the cut that
cursed the event. It juttered each circle, and soared forwards, faster and
faster, a hit through dimensions, was beaten into the track, cutting at the
inner spinners of life. Sucking up some of their plan, making a surge stronger
and stronger as itself, the cut. Little point in the inner circle, were little
yes's, in light, they screamed in the scratch, and flung me forwards, round and
around, the cut, that had dug up a crazy evil, event, going on and on. So far
into the future, it came into the past. It was what we couldn't discard. We
could clean time, by erasing bad events, like wiping a record with soapy water.
And good time would spin. The songs were
indelible basic shapes of space and time, curling round and round. eternal,
indelible,
Television let
us enter the past.
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