Foshe Kragmeyer reasembles 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 hell’s 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 party’s domain to the crunch time chaos it was meant to be. Foshe doesn’t 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
Irascible Resputin, I know thee well! Come see the flagrations borne of impotent despots intent on preserving themselves in the face of the mercurial dance of future histories. Then, perhaps, you will know the beauteous glow of infinite archetypes annihilated by the transfiguration of disparate realities unfolding without care or consideration for any evil or righteous cause or transformational endeavor! – Esinz