Degenerations rationed for the long run consumption; Attired in the fitfull fancy ballgown of a crown prince of thievery and packaged as corporatized misgivings; Abandoned in the wreckage of a blustery New England nighttime; Avenging the pernicious incising of the long forgotten Mountblanc huns on their last run at glory; Is there any empathy amongst the millions who cry foul at the slightest percieved slight?
I am rotting and gorging and foaming at the mouth for safe harbors from the shark infested waters of my mind. There are times when the wild things roam, and no amount of kharmic balance will appease the gods of fury that live in my belly. I ride the wingless donkey of abrasion's lost triumph to the mighty frost of winter's cold belying force.
Can it be any more pedantic and uninspiring? My head is numb with intrusions and proclamations of exculpation. I'd rather be sleeping.
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