With a half spin qualifier, disturbing in least, the confines of the beasts, named self-consciousness, guilt, fear & doubt; all needing to be tamed, phantasmal they; with which your hands can never grasp, but your spirit & fortitude, and strength of age, overcome, and never undone, or seek to ravel the knots.
Up & down, charmed & strange, top & bottom, we're all the same. Your neutrality scored along the edges of imaginings. We crack the seal, let knowledge flow forth, shaping, colloidally, filling the empty of every effusive file, and pondering: when, at which point, and how, a dent does progress to be deemed a hole.
But moreover a whole; mutualists in pedagogs, abstractions of randoms, in phantasmal botanicals; the deep blue of night that never turns black and carries us sweetly, as we forget our forge forward in unforeseen fantasy.
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