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I. Prufrock (The Snowman From Up North, take 1) I really understand that I'm excited: a smart bomb that goes off to loud music loudly; so frequent and so cold. Hey, I appreciate it. The history that kills the talk, researching a link between boredom and a 3 speed bicycle with you. Diagnostics and proofs, Im terrible at learning that. I've sinned in original syntax. Yeah, you were probably right to lock in on the Canadian aspect. OK; I'll be that thing, that cold machine. Punchcard pedantry, A strain against the freedom A test; A Turing test, Turing to turn to turn to turn to turn to turn to turn to turn to turn to turn. Some edges; freezing and unreal. A winter of soul lost in some summer by the sun.

II. Prufrock (I Have Charlie Brown Syndrome) My wall is elbow high and red for blue blankets. The mantle of Atlas is now ponderous on the wall. Interrogative: if its this one: If it's like 44 of the Brothers K. Ive always wanted to ask the King: Anybody making good records again? I I I I love the love you keep; how it feels big. think these lines are in original syntax. had to explain it that way just to make sense. miss this feeling that returns unreturned. (unphatic)

Are you looking for me? I can't tell. I think youre drawing lines in the water. Mad Libs for my girl. Talk is because it is; with coaster brakes and maximum coldness. Waiting waiting waiting. Nothing to begin; the contours rust. Oxidizing leaves me red faced and fingerprinted.

III: India Lima Oscar Vector Echo Yankee Oscar Uniform Lady, you're a portable scorpion farm, you worry. No joke: youre not so dont jump from the thing tomorrow! Don't you worry, a crumpling inner collapse left me like this, So pardon my last few years. And I say I OWE YOU SO MUCH. (you left me like this) Sometimes I think humans love the new culture and its events. How does it entertain? Oh wow, isn't that the mystery? Pardon me, Im pretty ordinary looking. I asked her out. No. No worries. Apparently I'm hugging the academy, Finding myself burdened with a sad syntax. Don't I know about hiding your face from the best; I should have probably followed money, you should have been followed by love.

IV: Prufrock (Meridian: Uh Oh, Awkward Moment With You) The next day: Last night was fun, I apologize for my chattery teeth. I apologize for being me a guy who played the good old days to a pedantic lexophile in her underpants I feel good and old fashioned while cuddling, sending post cards and showing no sexual prowess. Yet we're supposed to see. What, were you awake? What were you thinking? Finishing that version of the discussion about how its never not possible to find someone whenever we don't care. You're fine while living alone. I'm comfortable being a Radiant Heart. The lesson deep in anything is Love and a sense that its practiced by intuition... meanwhile, my life is collapsing manageably.

V: Apologeology: I Can Do Without The Bedrock/Prufrock Lady, its nice if you dream about being pre-programmed for meeting single dudes. (a portable scorpion farm) I feel the same way about failed loves at dinner. Don't be divisible by 6s (hexed, as it were). So ones, so zeroes. Isn't it hard? I'll posit: its a zen-like clarity of our obsession. btw, that was a gold star on the graph of the experiment that I am infinitely jealous of. (ongoing) Oh, weird. My body decided I'm always fighting off sleep. and sometimes I apologize for standing up. Dont I generate even small amount of humour? If you won't be in my myth then you wont be in my reality. My real keeps cutting out. I experiment, I dream in jest You're a rare thing in this town and Id bet on you again. Now I feel like a robot powered by the promise 5pm. But you can call me, Ill be around, Just in case he doesn't get that youre great. Theres no call-up Id refuse, lady.

VI: Prufrock (In French, You Sing About It) Life is better backwards so says Kierkegaard. An amen, A hallelujah, and some loves last that never were. I felt sad at 4am, How its getting beautiful here. I think of you a lot because youre the thing. Oh yeah, let's do that. That sounds AMAZING. Who else is down? And do they love your arms?

On The Dreamlife Of The Apiarist The domain of the beekeeper is productivity perfected; drones in their combs, a busy, wordless life where love lies in the dance and pollen is perfume.

On The Dreamlife Of The Pornographer A sturdy deadbolt A white front door A room with nobody To witness the repose. A little leftover pasta A salad of tomato, spinach A comfortable sofa To lose herself in TV. A moment at the sink A glance at what they see A stab at the lightswitch To a bed never shared.

On The Dreamlife Of The American Dream You were Jack Ruby and my heart was Lee Harvey. And where was love? She was wearing pink Chanel, holding the fragments of hope in her hands.

Photos + Design: Adam Wilson Apologies: Warhol Museum Twitter: @theleanover Made in Edmonton, 2011; 2012.