See, David, handwriting 
is slung as writing on your hand.
it casts off its first stone thrown,
into the brick walls of interpreted realities  

Stretched out elastic vowels
spearheading a consonant.
from the core, of your fist as vocal chords  
chords are chores for resonance 
to future-tense stories that can only be pasts

your stories, David, will now iterate and virally spread where then fissures show as freedom to literacy. For it’s spaces creating words, the hum of your sling interrupts continuity into their birth
they exist for monotony does then not

The words are discreetness you pass liminally
superimposed into a crack forming a negative space in Goliath’s skull who is then inundated with teaspoons of reason till death does its part and silence then resolves your stand off 

The world, this hand me down, is now your paralipomenon, David. Spoil it well, spell it well, leave it out, fill it in, throw a stone with it and spielen Sie auf der Welle, David. 

—animasuri’23