The Day of The Amphibian

Down the wild hair corridor, and dance around that lonely vector's twitch. Whispers crave menopause. Attack your own unconscious, sir. My coffin can't be expected to do everything for you. Twenty columns of inertia, then I'll be the extraordinary pallour of her spoken flesh. The unknown flows like water through every inspired gesture the ninth lets fall from its dreams of exile. Exhaltation begins in breakdown, a desolate tumescence freezing the sun with just an idea, and at last cellos with an array of sinister weaponry concealed in their garters rob the treasury for the benefit of starving Andalusian painters everywhere. Who can blithely hold an ostinato in the palm of their hand while contemplating the day of the amphibian? Your mantra has gone pale with the postmodern clink and thud's journey among wild, awful insomnia's of the self. Martial laughters need to commune with the ocean's primordial blink beyond the many dishonest reasons for inhabiting a body. Rituals return lunacy to the domed light, biological whirls gnashing what Iam forced to concede is silent between fur. Her chromatic tongue releases the talk and peel into various cells and stones beneath her balcony, modern alchemies sold a ticket to spin faster and faster. My stained psyche is growling at asteroids as they drown in my enigmatic text. The Logos is darker than once thought, but it is gleefully learning there are new vibrations to surf while playing what is scarlet's infinite love.