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a rippling twist of bright defiance and chaos, a smothering and a release from those manacles of decorum that lash our monocles close to close the deal with a wink and coffin toast.
WHY? cries a lone man in a deck chair, swaddled in his apathetic fury. he dipped his nib into the country’s blood and scrawled mushrooms.
all shall be well
or strangers will be eaten by the squalls of desperate seagulls, squawking oblivion. we rest, ferociously, like the masturbating maidens of outland were the wind swallows our mistakes.