i do not gel with this season; it is a rapture undernourished, a hook overbled. tell what you see...? worth seeing? and what is worth? and what is seeing? write a slogan on these my serpent arms, enscribe for me your armistice of charms. i.. i need.. i need the seed of your creed on which to bleed from secondary souls. you've treed within the premie forest of thoughts you've already had, of lives lived past their time until it seems to be rebirth not the afterbirth of e-prime. why ask what is at all? is will always be was, will always be judged.

is is not - the first philisophic argument, only gets further complicated. i need to just go. so there sat amelia, her face feeling like a shadow, like a palpable mask, a palpable am false empire... a neon sighn of worship - her face any face all thought, all possible language, every passing emotion beneath could only then bequeath to her hearthy h-art ghosts of exist past as judgement reduced to gas all which has passed beneath all masks; leaving the is is cannot show, the is of i do not know, the is of wonderment beneath which lies all of worth, all of hearth, all of earth, lending growth beyond mirth. and the ephemeral worship, the distance between the standard and the daybreak, the dream and the dreamer, no where - the eyes teeth, the gored skull, these are the sedentary moments, the momentums, the fond ghosts, the voiceless foundaries of time's passage. and here do we rest, and here do we form our platforms from which to preach ideals unfulfillable.

soulcups unfillable by anything but the gray predawn light of day unfiltered by the exhaust of day's prefabbed labor in which is harbored the dreams of the non-dreamer and the seed of non-dairy creamer. how to harmonize within the reverb of molten consciousnesses undressed by the un of un-less, useless unrest undirected is incest. this cannibalism of sense, the senses, the dark vacuum, the epiphany of tidal and rotten shades of blue, of grey by the dark light, oh tell me of worlds beyond this one, ineffable obscurities, mountains left to whim their own explosive gesticulations, tell me of women who have gone red with passions of blood, of etherial catacombs lit only by the electric neuronic powers that have been unriddled but for those physicalities mankinds hands do, and in doing, do forever tell me of a place where the clouds passage can be unclotted as easily as blood, the right sense sentiment, mode, doctrine, woo, the lovers kill thought an instrument, a played mandolin, a sweet harmony to turn back the hands of clocks, of clouds, of angry sand in these my many histories, the angry hour glass, yet uncalled regret... yet uncalled regret...

nodes of nothing nodding to the pitter patter heartbeat of art's feet padding its retreat replete of incubus complete treading tandems down heartstring tendons marionetting maelstroms of anarchous bedlams. who here can listen without fearing jeer? nearly hearing here. is this not intended function, ear? ah, but fear, but fear. reason for peers' peer, and reason for i without near, no regret, only inlet shed by the creator of unities' tear. and so you see now, this is the wrong side of the moon; we have been caught in the malformities of happenstance.