Erstwhile relic of summer’s folly, calamity’s journey collides with eventide.
The sweet melancholy lake, the glimmer of hope’s return, the shadow of your smile, hastens the hour of enchantment. –
The defragmentation of corporeal non-phased binary inculcations justifying the inertness of superficially palliative geometric constructs of reality creates the perception of consciousness. –
Foshe Kragmeyer resembles the cooked-up version of a pantomime on duck virtues, the transparent sniveling of eggplant regression, and the texture of tomato puree (of course, the rice must be precise!). All for none to dine, for it is a sacred resurgence to the rasp of desolution, a coattail resemblance of angst-driven ego that propel his curios endeavours. Solid in stature yet weak in virtue, hell claim the ticket to the rally and forfeit his knowledge for a minute in the ovens of hells receptacle, be it a cold Sunday or, shall we say, “Baked Alaska”.
“I wish to donate to the cause of the Sangria Fountain, for I find my time is valuable to those little strangers”, yet the dew is not off the blade before it’s a finished fracas. So now the epitome of rancor invades the room of stilts and effervesces the partys domain to the crunch time chaos it was meant to be. Foshe doesnt need the prayers of the living, nor the dead. Rather, give him the the toast of treason. Sell him the watch of ignoble glory. Set him on the Hercules Fandango to dance with the Laconia Jubilares. Rest, the journey to guillotine is next! – Sinz