ARCHIVE - The Form's lib

Enter the body into a mad lib - an already filled in game, only erased. The census traces the indents, concluding a story endlessly known of the body strapped down: Clearly the candle lit eighty hours last week, only to find the dog took the bus to work, while the trash can checked the female box, for Lucas holds a space, mortgaged; however feebly in his hands, he has not broken his pinky. No longer does the body consist of limbs and a head, but of a packet with words and checks. The body is classification - a census of the corpus.

The decade population analysis now dons the appendages, stretching, seeking, quanitfying ten fingers (billions) for it causes cense. Laughter, it knows not; life, it needs not for it crumples the packts with a single check box (its perpetuating nourishment). The modern centuries old phenomenon. Imagination without. To imagine is the nine years of shuffling, only to be reminded of the physical paper-cut body, the one quantified, known in all its essence (occupations, relationships, diseases, ethnicities, etc.), known as an inherently mischievous being, confined to being imposed upon for the 'greater good.' Categorically, the body, then, is filed away once it congeals with the others. Nothing more exists than the number eigh and a dusy shell - a shredded trophy. ________________________