MORE

Radiance aggresses any form of “more,” the condition, resulting in future stuff fucking nothing, a timorousness that implements its compliment, abstraction, when I just want more, she thought, a set and necessary consequent, normalcy, pinned in a want hole, dishing out want stance, aggravated and undirected in an unsound, or not, push, confirmationally denying sublimity, neutrality, expedience. ‘More,” the demand as functional dissolution in an assemblage, an appropriation stipulation, an innocuous interstitial spot. For instance, a dead tree gives more if that is all that is said, or as in an aleatory policy to assume more to dangle when faced to fuck, otherwise box it in and accentuate any graven want to require more, a formed deliquescence that rests in the naming of one part. 

A no-name partner can grind a refined preciosity to counter stuff unconscionably; or she thought, he can stick his fingers on my molars and count them as more than generally assumed in that sad rummaged reciprocal edginess, so rattled and concurred from any noticeable recollection of his fuck attempts suggestively miscounting the positioned promptings, a distinction reshaped and transmitted  between self and intimates, systemically analogous  to a grid closure, as if any grid does not preclude a framed marking.