He saw a clot. I took the train to Vermont. He took the train. He smelled allspice. He would like to see the lake without the reflection of anything in it. The bustle of the house he lives in. The chaos. The clatter. I cannot write much of anything. I do not know how to write. These are not good sentences--sentences that come one out of the other. I took five bags of clothes down into the basement. The landlord had to put an oil heater in the basement. He put it near a pipe that easily froze. In the basement, a person put lots of electrical equipment. This is not good writing. Good writing is not this. It is not easy to write anything. To write anything is not easy. What they say is that sometimes you have to write a page to get to a pages. Sometimes you have to write and erase three paragraphs. Try to have few cohesive ties in the middle of the paragraph--but then put lots of ties between paragraphs. I will try that in my next five minutes. I could never do it in these five minutes. I drove down to Mississippi to sleep in a tent and sell fireworks. I was in a bad neighborhood--but no one tried anything.

I have this knot that I would like to toss off the dock. He threw the lemon into the buoyant hat. I was giddy about the pack that had its arms at its sides. She was defeated because the escapist duped her into thinking he had escaped when he hadn't. When amnesia is the thing that's most on your mind, you should ask yourself if you're being modest and, for the night, forecast your dreams. See them as a whorl in the air near your head. After they had all forgiven me, I was forewarned of a nirvanic trance. This is a world without end. This is the cutter, the biter. These front teeth of mine are the biters. It is unfortunate that they are so thin. That they are so thin is unfortunate. The manslayer found herself, again, at a keyboard. She controlled the boilers. She controlled the answers for the evening's progamme. She had a mother. She wore a tan uniform. This is the plant I cannot eat. I cannot eat this plant.

I have lost all interest in the five minute write. It is not that I am one to launch a freight of mice in the hellbent lambent cry of mania in the tall woman's throat of ventricles. The sycamore is not a tree I would like to write about. Once in a sycamore I was glad and I sang and I would never want to write a line like that. I would like to find an antecedent. I do not know enough about language to use it. Each sentence here is boring. I do not like writing these simple sentences. I do not know how to write sentences that could be otherwise. Got hit by a car. Broke an arm. Writhed on the hardwood. I listened to the floor. I listened to the snow. I listened to what I thought was a peach heyday. I thought I knew where there would be a panmixea. I thought there would be a big breed, but there wasn't one in the micro fission blast fake your madre in the fought brat broken she is not madre she would like to break the window by tossing a crab through it the session was making me giggle in the dramamine skyline dinner final of the montreal vibraphone the vibes on the basketball court they all sound like they are posing a question the pose of the question