Life in the context of being the rational sorcerer’s pot boiling stew on
fish heads causeway reams dockets of sounder ictotherian mandates.
The bottom of the belly laughers bursts from ingests of rectitude salivates,
slade sun acrophilea, debris of culminations of nearsighted bully-pulpit menageries.
Follow the ignomy to Salon, near to sunken Davali, in the fifth latitude,
find the silver trumpet of Cantor buried in haven’s moss trucket,
and ride seldom sojourned paths to satiated atrophy.
Beauty is perceived lust, contrived by abstract coherence of masked devocates.
Travel the abyss of since truth, why regress to mirth. Realize rather than to know,
that is my octagonal paradox. – Sinz