I want to die to defend your error

imagine counting-down, say from one million twenty seven point three; there’s T-minus negative 7 billion seconds to go; then there’s fractions and theoretical numbers to consider, square racked numbers, forks in the road; pin pricks in an angel’s hand; things that never count on their own, never worry prospects, double yoked eggs, grains of sand, a bus schedule; maybe the last minute life of a shadow, then nothing; watching water evaporate, watching the ice-cap melt; drive by shootings; trigger, spark, and ignition of any sundry incendiary device. imagine counting-down in 2-D; the fog grass is unable to see the dash board; radio reception, dead mute on a railroad track; the sound of stephen hawkins is in position and the black holes start talking. there is a count down; chickens, then sheep, first one then the later. asked, "why bomb?" why not? it’s a counteraction, a real counterfeit ornament; bone, flesh, blood; real deal dice, infinite sponge of infinite pain; mathematics missing a digit, a car without a plan, geometry without a plane; assembles retardant flames. a television is shoot through, from door-to-door leaving blank staresand a pain of unstrapped eyes. 1, 2, 3, 4, gets madder than a hatter; 6,7, 8, pick off tics; 15, 16, 17, your mother never had a child, never went to heaven, it was an immaculate conception; under a rock, kissed by one of fifteen princes. math bounces back as part-time sears and roebuck statistics then goes bankrupt. sin is an F-stop at a bus station waiting for the 14 limited; socially decoding diagnostic digital demons and distilling a baker’s dozen, 24-7, to an integer that subdivides mutants taking over a sum countdown avalanche eating contest. cordon bleu is a sub set of $21.75, plus tax, plus tip, plus water; the tablecloth is extra; the air is having a going-out-of-business sale. plastic in two point perspective equals pi squared with minimal mumbo @ 28 frames a sequin second, a second; counting-down from zero.