TOEIC23 score heads toward super nova exploded or

580

Accepting hornfels as a twilight forest / A dream of the library in front of Mitaka Station, browsing a catalog of "peek-a-boo" glimpses (like RCW 86) / On a bridge / Perhaps I could still eloquently divide my life in two / A tale of an Emperor’s penis—inside the refrigerator, a scene of rape itself, staged with three cockroaches / It is "Slot Machine No. 23" that disparages Judaism / Fertilizer cost structures—if it’s bedbugs, then behold: open the Egyptian *Book of the Dead* / In Koenji and Honancho, the service provided within a perpetually filthy detached house—a place of music that stirs a fascination with the ultimate fibers / Botanical instruments bloom and then close; a "barbiturate human" with no time to spare for reading *Newton* magazine / Deep inside a puppy—it’s raining—is an ampoule of morphine, constant and unchanging? A pyramid-Jupiter, familiar as a Picasso electric fan—Hitchcock, through a mongrel’s infield hit, makes the soldiers heading home nod in agreement—the "peeping-tom" window-woman of Shinjuku’s Kabukicho now dwells in ruins—perhaps the supernovae can be flattened even further—I become the control tower of a space research institute in Macedonia—a "model student" incantation, heteronormative and all—oh, you poor thing, off to a mountain of syrupy snow—a half-baked, pathetic salaryman—

Pitiful—

As I scrawled on a utility pole, "Teach Kotaro—to whom a 'gift' of values ​​has flown away—every pleasure the universe has to offer"—

A cat appears in the mailbox—

Does it continue because I never tire of it? Checking the score—a cheap, old-school *señor*—on the Chuo Line—

Mother says—

There are weeds in the garden—and to that, add the warmth of propane gas—if I were to be killed, my father mutters in his sleep, "Turn the body into roadkill—make it part of a 'pleasure squad'—"

In the weeds, everyone downloads—

A Jupiter that forces a sexual encounter between Wittgenstein and Setsuko Hara illuminates Uchida in the darkness—politics, Greek, a gunshot, anxiety, an enemy—

A fat, farcical performance—a fat monkey plays along—we stroll together along the narrow, old Ome Kaido road, and I urge the monkey on—the dog, too, mingles with the monkey, grasping the logic of the nuclear age on that narrow path—Tsurukame Land and Bikkuri Donkey—a kitchen knife—it’s dangerous in our house when Mother isn’t around—cake-like—imitating Kijima-kun, taking out a card loan—not quite reaching the Higashi-Koganei road— I wonder what the Book Off in Hanakoganei is like these days—my mother, smiling, met me at Hanakoganei Station as I was coming home from my job in the SPD department at Kyorin University. A stag beetle’s take on the horizon is that it exists to be obstructed. A McDonald’s coffee that cost exactly 100 yen. A Sega Saturn on Saturn. "Onigoroshi" (Demon-Killer) sake—ban the booze and switch to 5-MeO-DMT. A guild, a fat man from Wakkanai, an umbilical cord, a chaotic *chindon* street-band procession, and the fever of a Yumi Matsutoya song—all tumbling off a cliff. The bribe itself mutters a confession in its sleep, and then the Earth comes to an end. Cunning kindergarteners in a *doya-gai* (slum) make hollow horse-racing predictions. How do you attain freedom? Just down a bunch of tranquilizers and fuck a *okama* (drag queen). Making off with a copy of *Shukan Taishu*—and then, off to Kobe. "One order of shiitake mushrooms, please"—at the Los Angeles branch. A $500 bill, inhabited by the penis of Rod Stewart. With Umi Hakkake in Morocco. A gasping runner trips over a tambourine. A soldier snatches a hiking hat off a civilian’s head and tosses it to his own dog. A grin, a peanut, offered to the inspired voyager among the stars. Taking Lamictal tablets in Haijima. Consciousness is swarming with radiologic technologists. On the pier, the bald and the toothless mingle. Stormy legislative proceedings in the state of Texas. The spaghetti of reason has lost its vertical axis. Perestroika itself becomes an orphan. To the overflowing springs that transcend all answers—what is the origin of love? A Saturn V rocket—consciousness, once again, turns into a spell—a ritualistic incantation, much like a manual for a radiologic technologist.

Have you given it any thought? The outcome of the "Starry Sky Administrative Control Act" / Aja Kong Hiiragi’s beginning / A fat-monkey charade unfolds / The fat monkey plays his part / We stroll together along the narrow, old Ome Kaido road, and I urge the monkey along / Even the dogs, mingling with the monkey on the cramped path, grasp the core logic of things / Tsurukame Land and Bikkuri Donkey / A carefully curated *makunouchi* bento—damp against my neck and arm / The rubber band, like a curveball thrown by Ohashi Kyosen, strikes me right in the eye / I strike Marx—in a metaphorical sense—with my left foot / The damp room of a Trotskyist / A fat-monkey charade unfolds / The fat monkey plays his part / We stroll together along the narrow, old Ome Kaido road, and I urge the monkey along / Even the dogs, mingling with the monkey on the cramped path, grasp the core logic of things / Tsurukame Land and Bikkuri Donkey / A kitchen knife—dangerous in our house, especially with Mother away / Cake-like / Taking out a personal loan, just like Kijima-kun / Not quite reaching the Higashi-Koganei Kaido road / I wonder what’s become of the Book Off in Hanakoganei these days / Mother, returning from her work at Kyorin University SPD, met me at Hanakoganei Station—her face bright with a smile / A stag beetle’s take on the horizon is that it exists to obstruct / McDonald’s coffee for exactly 100 yen / A Sega Saturn on Saturn / "Onigoroshi" (Demon-Killer) sake / Ban alcohol and switch to 5-MeO-DMT / A guild, a fat man from Wakkanai, an umbilical cord, and a chaotic, noisy parade—all tumbling off a cliff, fueled by the fever of a Yumi Matsutoya song / The bribe itself mutters a confession in its sleep, and the world comes to an end / Cunning kindergarteners in a skid-row shantytown make hollow horse-racing predictions / Passing through a hornet-coffin on the New Ome Highway / Checking VHS tapes—a crab’s indulgence / A staged-accident scammer’s conversation at the Saint Marc Café in Ikebukuro / Tempura soba that got in the way / A stew-shop owner with a knack for calculus / At the threshold of a lion’s den / Overlapping strands of heredity / A calamity meant to ward off corpses lies in the middle of the road / My mother was a strict Muslim / A perspective drawing revealed it all / A long, imagined life of poverty / Blood vessels wedged in between / Endorphins illuminate an apartment in Nakameguro / An ejaculation faster than light, amidst a demolition site / Veins of sorrow bulge out—a win at the pachislot parlor / A fat, barefoot woman walked along Dobuita Street—assembly-line work, a flowing stream—sorrow, the linchpin of the Bulgarian railways; she dedicates that light to the caressing of the sewers. They say coral reefs are saviors of life. On the way home along the Seibu-Shinjuku Line: three 10mg tablets of Amoxapine. A dream where Jimi Hendrix gets off at Kami-Shakujii Station to take a shit in the open. A "Japanese National Railways yakuza" uses the number of passengers rubbing against one another as a topic for his drinking banter. Was the "Doctrine of the Mean" born because Confucius went too far? My father used to drive a brown Lincoln. An elderly aunt—a relative who was a pharmacist in Koenji—used to feed me salmon for breakfast. Drink the water from Lake Kawaguchi in Yamanashi. The thought of delicious deep-fried oysters flits through the mind of a Saturnian. A couple suffering from panic disorders—who have come to possess both high and low status—share a smile. The chairman of Kannai Printing sits alone with his beloved dog, Ruby, inside an expensive Mercedes-Benz—a car they call "the fighter jet." A stain of Ruby’s excrement marks the unfinished final work of Billy Burroughs Jr. An apocalypse, decreed by Yamaichi Securities. Whispering a plan to a porn actress: a scheme to deliver a lariat to a fox. T.S. Eliot, his face drained of color, stands by the roadside to urinate—what a sight. A face full—a raccoon carcass has migrated to Minobu Station in Yamanashi Prefecture, accompanied by a pristine turkey. In *MANZOKU* magazine, two beauties illuminate their keloid scars. If you’re going to eat a *hisha* (rook) piece, make sure to serve it with a side of cucumber. Asagaya is a famous spot for getting your thigh bitten by a dog. For the whereabouts of the human soul, try asking an old-model Zaku. A telegram-obsessed lunatic has seven breasts grafted onto his chest. At Café Miami, Albert Ayler plays while a bunch of broke, down-and-out types chat away peacefully. Like hibernating animals, we drift all the way to Haijima Station. I just want a penis to sprout from my forehead. An angry, shouting phone call from an aunt. A swarm of ageless *okama* (drag queens/trans women) descends all at once. Go ahead—hurl kimchi into Lake Kawaguchi! My academic path, steered by a PC Engine console, serves only to supplement my shaky grasp of geology. I pulled a suspicious-looking gladiolus flower out of a school backpack. Through the lens of his sunglasses, a shadowy figure struck an acquaintance of his from Ethiopia. On the endless Tohachi Road, the steam rising from a cup of instant noodles reached a conclusion. My shoulders got so stiff they turned into plastic model kits—now they’re being sold in stores. What does it mean to be ignorant? // Cock-yakisoba. That’s what happens when you don’t eat; an old woman talks to a pile of scrap metal—how regrettable. Serotonin drifts toward the Yodobashi Camera warehouse at the Tokyo Monorail Ryutsu Center. Attending a cram school and shooting pigeons—a way to expose lies that exist outside the suburbs. You’ll probably struggle to afford your Gunpla models, won’t you? Real-life Hachioji residents grumble that DNA analysis is a load of rubbish. Cutworms you can buy for 6,000 yen. A massive *Romance of the Three Kingdoms*—its height measured by its high price. Ah, the cool, detached chill of Nomura Securities. I’ve met Kenji Sawada. A Russian woman with a penis sprouting from her thigh can’t seem to win a horse race. It’s packed with deformed children. I am the National Diet Library itself. I head toward Nakano-sakaue Station on the Tozai Line, but all I’m left with is the impression that it just reeks of urine. A beggar in Adachi Ward who has acquired the wisdom of an elephant. A narrow street in Jiyugaoka where my father once ran a cabaret. Yoshinoya just never goes out of business, does it? A Chinese man, captivated by the idea of ​​a guide dog longing for Higashi-fushimi Station, turns the scene into a painting. Wittgenstein fashioned a *shamisen* out of a holly branch. You have to eat at the Ramen Jiro in Choja-machi three times to truly grasp its flavor—so, off to Bosnia and Herzegovina I go. Exile—a raccoon dog stops counting its unhatched chickens and gets an erection. Black Mercedes-Benzes become a trend in the form of plastic model kits. Leave the shoplifting at bookstores to Hegel; leave the assault cases at the Dead Sea—that clear, crystalline Dead Sea—to Hegel, too. A busty Hungarian woman, who couldn't care less about sweet spaghetti, shows up at a Tokyo newspaper headquarters to peddle a moped. One-yen coins blanket North Macedonia. Aja Kong expresses her dissatisfaction with real estate investment—for better or worse. *Shonen Jump* makes its way all the way to the Los Alamos Ranch School. In Yamanashi Prefecture, the semiotic order is nowhere to be found at Lake Kawaguchi. I’ve taken to keeping Ultraman Taro on the tip of my little finger. A hot-water bottle stretches out to 25 meters along the Tohachi Road. An erect, enumerated list brings about an enlightenment of meaning. A tour guide—who encourages reading while catching glimpses of women’s underwear—loses money on speculation; he’s no better than a raccoon dog. Once again, I’ve joined the ranks of the penniless after a stint at the pachinko parlor. I shoplifted some serow meat from the supermarket. A party member, driven by a specific intent, devours bedbugs. Akira Ikegami urinates on a woman—and while he’s at it, a Hollywood actress takes a dump on the Tachikawa monorail. A yakuza from the old National Railways forces a stray dog ​​to dance the flamenco. Hitchhiking near Haijima Station. With a humidity that feels more like a wet dog than mere heat, Newtonian mechanics is in the foulest of moods. The lingering snow—stained by someone’s public urination—crawls up from the ground, as if to say, "I get it." Just leave all buying and selling to North Macedonia. A casual, carefree game of cunnilingus. My household—forged in Texas and refined in Mitaka—adopts an "American open stance" and holds Richard Nixon in high regard. In Hiroshima Prefecture, a hermit crab claims baseball is a symbol of war; meanwhile, the *Yomiuri* newspaper—citing water conservation—mocks public housing management systems from a long-term perspective. Let the deer live in luxury! They feasted on stars in the shade. Combine the cramped confines of a bar of soap with the steep incline of Kurayami-zaka (Darkness Slope). Whether or not a safety razor would say as much, Burroughs quotes Shakespeare. One strips for the sake of Fussa—but not entirely. Having swindled a tip, one gets off at Shimo-igusa to sleep beside a ruffian. *Newton* magazine endures nonsensical, sauce-obsessed prattle. Snapshots are smudged by an apricot-colored virus. At Nakano-sakue, a mother buys a rice bowl for 10,000 yen from a shaman. A video—fully aware of its own ugliness—takes a dump behind Aoyama Cemetery; everyone looks like an insect. Charles Manson, buried in overtime, conducts microbial tests. Audrey Hepburn—who developed an asthma attack during the ultimate orgy—hosts an *All-Night Nippon* radio show. Sakae Osugi mutters in his sleep about how irresistible black-and-white legs are, while Audrey spends her days and nights playing *pachinko*. The Department of Justice... Putting a stop to wasteful spending—taking advantage of others' misfortunes has become my recent trend, things like accidental deaths, for instance. Mixing 5-MeO-DMT with 2C-T-4. A peace treaty on the front lines. Kitchen knives are dangerous in our house—at least when Mom isn't around. Cake-like. Taking out a card loan, just like Kijima-kun did. Not quite reaching the Higashi-Koganei thoroughfare. I wonder what the Book Off in Hana-Koganei is like these days. Mom, coming home from her work at Kyorin University SPD, met me at Hana-Koganei Station—smiling. Deciding to cut off a stag beetle’s take on the horizon. McDonald’s coffee that cost exactly 100 yen. A Sega Saturn on Saturn. "Onigoroshi" (Demon-Killer) sake. Forget the booze—stick to 5-MeO-DMT. A guild, a fat guy from Wakkanai, an umbilical cord, a chaotic, noisy parade—and the feverish heat of a Yumi Matsutoya song, all tumbling off a cliff. The bribe itself mutters a confession in its sleep, and then the Earth comes to an end. Cunning kindergarteners in the slums make hollow predictions for horse races. Taking a bath with Mom in our apartment in Mitaka, heated by propane gas. A madman bursts in, leaving the tub covered in severed penises. Is lard a type of oil? Becoming a celebrity in Uruguay / "My Mother: Demonology" gains popularity on the Tachikawa monorail / An incident on the New Ome Highway—to me, it was a security hole, plain and simple / I trust politicians / Nightingale didn't even know the anatomy of a gallbladder—what an idiot! / The founder’s name, via a registration transfer, ends up as "Shrine Forgiveness" (Jinja Kanji) / Consuming garlic at midday, only to end up run over on the Koganei Highway / They haven't the faintest clue where the ships—or anything else—are headed / The footsteps of a barefoot orphan, the time—minutes and seconds—it takes for the heat of a hair dryer to dissipate / Don Siegel’s desert footsteps, right by the local candy shop, the plastic model kits, the car wash / A posthumous Buddhist name; a girl who wants some *abura-age* (fried tofu) gently inhales toluene / An old woman wandering aimlessly from one point to another / A virtuous woman wanders near the Tozai Line, finally discovering a client’s apartment / Is it a hard tick, or a house mite? / Let’s meet on Kichijoji Sunroad—bring your recorder / If he’s truly a Protestant, then I’ll make the church my anchor / With only Oda Mudo in the cast, the Toyoko Line train feels quite lonely / A bastard on the Keikyu Line is sobbing / While eating some old sushi / Just do the ordinary thing / If possible, try inserting a hemisphere into a woman who possesses three vaginas / A slender, beautiful-legged *gyaru* appears / The Sobu Line, packed to the brim with all manner of magnificent livestock / The total count of Don Siegels—it’s all about the feet