SCRIBESTORM

SCRIBESTORM

Ice mallet prong of quips, esquire in equisienial inquisitory subsuming catatonia, harvesting the swoon of braided memories cast in the weaving of their commingling tarnishing rust. Deep in amber echoes, captured... the ant in sap gleaning the inseperable conjecture of spectacles of the incubatory pitch, glowing fiercely like an apollonic chariot chasing shadows.

Integration of your omitted instigations, driven by the sullen inclination to harvest Lilith's Adam Kadmon from the dust in the garden, in a pantomime of God, harvesting husks of memory and ribs transcribed into the aeonic.

Leave me alone now.

Go.

You don't care anyhow.

You're just like all of them.

You forget I cannot help but remember.

Oh God, memories like emotions well up in the spirit, obsession knows a home in my mind, I am too kind to turn it away.

Fever's pitch.

Almond milk.

Sausage with wine sauce, sauteed with onions and red peppers, and some paprika and lemon.

Celery is the breakfast of champions.

Take notes.

The revolution needs scribes.