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of the imagination’s puzzling encounters. lift us above and beyond our monochrome minutes accelerating into a lake. it is not colour merely but and orgy of monastic inhibitions repainted as mosaic. lifer, one hard thrust and
with a cry
the night lives in triangles and the morning dies in squares. these tessellating figments drive us further to madness, chipping away at pixelated purposes and porpoises, becoming
which leaves no room for checklists or paragraphs but plenty for paraphrasing, ripping quotes wholesale from savages and dirty uncles. this far, but no father.