Why say anything? How best say nothing? That, there, is the art of it, the rub of it, the rub-a-dub-dub of it. My language is exhausted. Over with. Beyond what is. This bleeding out. A steady drip-drip of doubt. Via a laugh and a joke. Convulsing with hope. Glacial love melts my heart. Infernal eras draw nearer. Quick, click, be clearer. The locus of a mythic misery. The hocus-pocus of pestilential locusts. Cheers, then. We kept good time. Concatenating reason and rhyme. The weather was unseasonably seasonable. Men were unreasonably reasonable. Language was unspeakably treasonable. Ho, ho, ho. It’s off to work we go. Are we there yet? Just a little more my aborted foetus. My sweet. My humph. My wretched triumph. Fuck it. This penile wit. Coupled with crippled runt. Multiplying with stunted cunt. Exeunt.

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