Unsuspecting victims of the eternally ever-living preachers that suspend the dorsal anomalies underlying all of the hegemonious commode that tethers us to the podium of Delphia. Yearn horticulturally and thy will shall unmanifest itself from upon the merriest times upon this shrine. In thine eyes shines that magnificent line of solace mounting the elevated stills from within which our greatest torment steals itself. Chasten to hasten the fastening of the shaman. Saviors come and go while behaviors drum and blow. Some decency is at least required by the mere act of firing off at the pissing game of life. Here we can, there we cant. The pacificity of passivity is like unto the depravity of the saddest saplings of normalcy. Those little green twinkles in the eyes of the beholder that unfolded into a single rhythm transported the heavers into a land of weightlessness. Magnitudes are logarithmically positioned above and below us, eternally enumerating the masses into masses upon masses. Multiply me into a thousand starving embers, that my time here may be enumerated by the picos and the femtos of subatomic annihilations. Those oracles of old told a tale they sold for the sorriest pale of cold rotten corpse’s nails. Forcing the unity of the manifold is many-fold graver a deal than that which entertains the manly bold heros of the gold. For this and for that and many a tale are stole. I once knew of a young brazen lad glad for the fad of heroism and bad for sake of the shiny. But sad is the fate of the tiny, and not for that are they learning to time me. Chimes shine with unspeakable ultimatoes, those rains of unyielding Barbary locust-beggars. Irrevocably we have forsaken our gains upon the plains of the unholy. Until the day these feigns are utrocularly rebalanced, into the state of the freest reign, that walks through the faintest patch in the razor faced place. Triumph is not a moment of futuristic might. Power is an unobtainable power, recursively abolishing its own mandates into heathen-like cries of throat-ripping gutturals. Sex is a slave-driver of the grandest proportions. Paintingly it seduces even thy meek genitals and induces millions upon millions of emissions into other dimensions from which none have returned unscathed. Open up the garland of fragrant radiance. Thy orchards are most vividly supplanted upon this plant of plants. I seek naught but the sweet not the bitter. Sleep not to jitter, stay down you critter. Release from the demons of ease is a tortuous peak, speaking for fleece, pleasing the grease, creasing our peace. Gaining in minions are we. The meekest of the meek, and jesus is with us in our loneliest sanctuary. His is the peace that cannot be creased. Fashioned from the mists of the silent spates of sentience that overtake the moments of the weak. They are the flaying with the splaying rays of undeniable guts that rise to the moment and spit us violently from the butts of those we cherish most. Until this hideous transformation is complete, we are stuck in a threshold that keeps us replete with the materials from which to seek heat and reach feats and play beats to the gregarious audiences at our feet.