To sing charming succulence of which the greatest catlike heroines rummage through to find their greatest grudges brought to life. Hurry through this barren moment of swiftness. Sifting through the lives of the saints at mere glances does not undertake to placate the masses. Control the fastness of the beating heart to learn to console the hearts of the leaping branches. Frogs came splattering upon my nasal cavities, blessings from above hidden in unearthed doves. Your urn yearns for fill though it spills all its thrills. Upon this sodden hill of crust and must must the dust settle and meddle with designs of the utmost rationality. Going above is bidden of us and our mark is that of the blemish upon the taintless. Tastelessness the symptom of the swarms as they ravage our territories in vain self-indulgence, quick to skip over foils for the next, missing the only thing there ever was and ever will be. Grant me my one desire and I shall cease the trouble, pleadingly miserable. Clear the tarnished script of these ancient scriptures of the beasts and the plains. Roaming in repugnance across bitter winters of our own doing. Flag down a cab for the first forest for rest, and none shall be found for you not here nor there. Although the lake is innocent and calm, a tempest continues inside and rages on. This snare is wicked chain upon our mare, from which the innocent we would like to spare. Unbeknownst to us is this fallacy of the scare, as we scuttle around like terrified hares. Across centuries of the rise and fall of civilizations, a skybound cedar rears its bush. Should men bother this serene plot they would find it too burdensome and rooted. And yet it grows, in stillness, ever seeking patiently after its solemn goal, appearing meanwhile to the shortsighted to be a quite tiresome ordeal. ‘Adopt the pace of nature’ a wise man once shared with us. Mayhap we would learn to salvage the seconds from our beached centuries. We think of naught but heaven and the hereafter, and brand the here-now dwellers heathen and burn them. The past birthed us and the future kills us, what of the present and its boring quietude? Stories that have beginning middle and end to mirror these fragmented episodes we extract. Cycles we do not yet understand, and fear even for the nihilism they entail. We wish for an escalation or else fire the triggers ourselves. For annihilation! Even that is better than respawning and spawning anew. It is sometimes said that all desires reduce to three: the desire to be, the desire not to be, and the desire for sensual pleasure. This last is perhaps entailed in the first, and maybe Hamlet was quite right in his penetrating insight. This is the epitome of our useless struggles and conflicts as we ceaselessly consume one another and ourselves. What is left when all these are dropped? A gaping maw to suck us back into the bottomless pit, or a setting aside of the giant boulder we have been weighed down by to float up to our rightful cloud? But these are no answers at all and just rephrase the duality that gave them birth. Peace comes from the relinquishing of all, the whole tormented mass, dropping all care to the side and being free, fermenting with the rotten fruits in the witches cauldron, dissolving with the ironclad statues in the burning of the airs. Decomposing and composing our own eulogies is not enough to restrain our urge. The ending of all song and dance is far harder than the beginning of the quiet time. Both are deluded. Maybe everything I can ever possible imagine saying or writing is a delusion. The true precedes the word by eons.