A Song of Prometheus

Drains of a sewer provide this opportunity for a great wonder and if the size of a hurricane affords more, is it then because, each legitimatize fact finds room on a floor, to floor more forms—that force may conceal—and if not, then tipped sides of a borrowed vehicle, we hear our neighbor burp and it’s okay as he closes a door, yet his thoughts continue to explore all areas of the house as if he weren’t in it and his consciousness were a tourist from a foreign and strange world—one too different than this one to explain, one too strange to apprehend, one too many to extrapolate where all facts of its fortress-mountains abhorring water, detainable under life, maybe zeroed-in-for forking out light—a lathe bathes in the summersaults of grace stained with weaponry, radioactive-sundials, and a name—all this belongs to what hardly can remain calm circling calamity of a sesame seed as it tries to define a pod. There are cloisters in here, I know it’s hard to understand, but if you stand under this beam; hear the garden it’s a roar in the lower-left portion of the ear-drum, the one free of coughing, the one who always explains consideration, even during hyperventilation—and some may say this is normal, while others have relinquished their palms, to stay in the race is singular, perhaps abnormal, but essential to monster the gravity of a formulation no one but a fawn could master.

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