Transcopsican Magnates rule decisively within the runnelling betrothed of giants' flung-asunder headpans. Crumpled fringe elements, Borium and Elysium, captive to the gravitative marches, harbor no ill will toward florrid spirals of mote-matter. Instead, I fickley and incisively mush meander the priority boats. Their sails weft of gloam and their line wound with turpentine, strangely resilient to the eaves and dips of a torpid sea. Coughing tremulously and breathing the beating of a monstrous pump, one occurence of this nature could fashion lovely putrescence from the filament-thin fronds littering your psychotributary floors, up to maybe level twelve.

Once, I said things of elegiac and arcane mathematics bringing peace to a riddled and effluviate mind... but that was incorrect in the strictest thaumaturgic sense. Turgid, note, the yearly incline behooves more than a passing Grace. And frolicking exhuberant through limpid daylight, most scattering corneae denote the beauteous callouses covering a wicked and wonderful denouement.

Scalloped from the edges of the Material Sea, my islands float in fecundity, straining their mooring pins and aching in the soft hoots of a lost dreamstyle for pla(n/c)es copied in the mode of Rembrandt Van Rijn. This, I tell you, this plurial motif is what I point to conceive and thread the needle Thought with when sewn from my Id to yours, or oftentimes to the empty aether. Mockingly? No. Insidiously? Doubtful. Perchance a hint and whiff of trawling oils, but used exclusive to the blind drummers hidden behind our ear canals. I forebore a while past to yeomen of dubious nature, simply for the gift of upstart mechanics and Cunning Misanthropes to contain my elation. Ecstacy and Innocence, Wickedness and Experiential Remembrances, given up in ghosting juts of muddy steam, grafted in terrestrial surgeries to the warm and surging magma flows that birthed their forefathers. It was a sight, let me tell you!

Since, sounding each meter for the empty casket stained in amber oils, it's part of all that is left to dwell on in the herebefore. The chronic, alembic locus shivering in grimy quarters, in ancient wish-tenements somewhere the conscious guard doesn't even recognize as jurisdiction. When slips the yawning firemaw from the sky, and the blue harkens back to fathomless depths, your pitiless glassine eyes flick from corner to edge to scaffold to lobes frontal and rectal, massive or minute. Inquiries innocent of malice but terrific none the less; horrid curiosity boiling fragrant and thick in the crystalline betweens of idea. Or maybe it's ides and the climax reached once will remain truant forever more, drifting motes my only solace in the creaking empty.

Pish and fiddle, moribund and useless drivel, mostly. Rictine faces, fawning and sedated in troubling numbers massage an ego worn to grains so fine as to immitate antimatter splurge on the harbinger, knowing he knows the simple secrets they don't need to subsume, chronicling their scintillation evolutions. Sparks. Sparks so grand and sparks sucking light so fiercely they might almost craft darkness from their simple existence, otherness gently excreted for absolute NECESSITY. These are what I want to dream of. To dream and survive. Yet, I'm awake.

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