If you made it this far you know about the roundhouse arrival of Cartesian physics and the innate import of relics from the east and a volume of precise language lost to the stars and the misled gray-matter masses and the begetting of Proud Mary and those visages found on the odd lint screen, tree trunk or cheese sandwich. For to heed the material wishes of every sacred queen is to forget the fairy feller’s master-stroke.
Ambulent dreams of precious metal debuttante and fishing for stale loaves and Madonna of the Sanskrit plava and pushing through the thin wall of mediocre vanity to a return-value of the crosspoints found in the collective ordinate and absissa. Dysfunctional relative values in the null schemata leaves room for clearer assessment among the detritus of those pathetic family lies.
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