Always scheming, scarcely dreaming–is it bits, or bats, or both? Wind around a wrinkled walrus, best amend your tale of woe. ‘Cause it’s simple, as a pimple, for anyone to see, that the crazy isn’t lazy to the dreaming and the me. But don’t listen (there’s a siren) to the babbling I make. Every time I cough or chortle, I’ve most likely made a mistake.

Or have I wandered oddly off the road into the trees? Am I swishing through the grasses, stealing honey from the bees? What’s this rhyming, it’s so pointless: this has no reason, too! So I’m addled, and so saddled, I bet this makes no sense to you.

But it’s hazy, nothing complicated or wanton of perturbed confluence; simulacra eternally ensnared in the tumultuous confines of my patently overzealous and downright indignant creativity, always eradicating–because honestly, complicity in nightmares breeds malcontent–and revising convoluted monstrosities of both frightful and trivial competence. But it’s sanity that’s most odd, so sober and firmly derived from adult necessity; I won’t have it!

And it’s fair, but rare, so there! Hey, I’m hardly a roll model, you impressionable, lackadaisical infants. You’re determined to reduce everything to a quivering fountain of banality, except when you’re not–so chaotic! Some loudly proclaim we’re forged in God’s image, but what the hell does God need genitals for? I mean, what does God mate with, exactly? Isn’t presumptively reducing God to a male figure merely illustrating the inherent limitations of humanity’s imagination and our enormous propensity for arrogance? That’s a great combination! If I were God, I’d just erase humanity and start over; we’re a loss.

Ooooh, look at me: I’m whimsical! Where’s my monocle, pocket watch, and teacup? But then I’d be striding fully into the absurd, and that I couldn’t possibly condone. But why worry, what’s the hurry? I’ve slipped up more than once; twice for folly, and by golly, I’m something of a dunce. Don’t you see just what I’m doing, while I fritter to and fro? Like a beehive full of Chicklets, I’m a dangerous piƱata–no, don’t ask the origin of that hyperbolic simile, my explanation would likely involve a recursive feedback loop of quintessential instability and render you mostly baffled–at least, if I were also full of Chicklets.

And anyway, who asked you?

Until Tomorrow

Rapidity of Splot
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