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. A bleeding out. A steady drip-drip of debilitating doubt. Through a laugh and a joke. Convulsions of hope. Wayward love leads me astray. Infernal eras draw nearer. Quick, click, be clearer. The consolation of 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. My aborted self was here, leaving groping handprints on a cave wall, furtive fingerprints on drinking vessels, a lingering feeling of disbelief in his wake.

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