he stood, nauseated, as he put on his boxer shorts.
would it be possible, she wondered, to choose between friendship and a BMW? and if possible, would the choice be easy or hard? it seemed as if his lack of memory had infected everyone else. her hair dyed blonde and in a good temper, she was already looking for a potential wedding dress. while the two of them are still sipping the freshly-squeezed orange juice, scenes are going on in front of the auditorium. he doesn't let angelina carry any luggage.
so perhaps it would be possible to say that vermeer-like spaceships sparkle through the fucking black mastercard of franz marc fuchs’ posters and leipzig, dollars shine through euros through yens through pamela’s marvelous bikini in the googleheimmuseum. ornaments lie about carefully tattered between lipstick and reforms, shiny shiny dicks bring flowers to palestine and take an upright bow for the cameracameras, scribble awkwardly now and then a few no no ideas somewhere between exploding kingkongsmurfs, les schtroumpfs, die schlümpfen, million-year-old cracked quartz crystals rush whistling through the PPPoE server-ties, the clocks work at a servile speed that overtakes the future and causes time to disappear, baroque apparitions proceed dreamily through crumbling palace-criticism-ruins, everywhere it splitters and splatters, zombies, dear donatella, and the currents of ducats flow more and more vigorously upwards all the way to the top, pink sneakers are lying alone on an elevation in the wind and have forgotten various things, for example.
so point-blank at the end would it almost be a matter of documents expressing the purest confusion and truth, in other words of genuine realism?