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   s y m b o l

--- W I L L I A M   M .  G O T T L I E B

	symbiont to synchronism

A symphony of cymbals – a bolus of subconscious, chewed over, spitting image out in a spatter of letters that will stand for anything – is a symbol once and for all the symbols’ brassy, dual crash in the long hall of the mind’s notational audience with itself, the representative, not the Actual, the matter of immaterial Fact. Fact? What the fuck is that? Perhaps it’s a synapse’s plastic capacity so unparsed Space can part its Paradox – Empty Pleasure, Full of Itself – into a grammar of mirror, ion of transmission, so forth and back, paired voyeurs of your image’s urge to enlarge upon an axon’s hard-on for information in formation, randy and-or neurons turning off and turning on, symbio- sis and bro of stop and go, nerve’s never-ever land of yes and no, the old, new one-two, a powerful combination to the head, a symbol list, so many things to du- ality in a lifelike likeness, the state – my goodness, my badness – you’re in when you’re out of it. Now that’s a fact. Or fiction as pure.

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