threading the I,

knot the Ego,

backstitch self.

Sew with your eyes, what is there – embroider a path to the inner exterior of the dancing lancewood’s bathos. The deprived language stalls against the sufficient antipode of an ancillary anecdote. A guard gaily marches above a correlated cacophony of acrimonious champagne chimaeras. Calculate the iced grapes with corrugated conviction. Then, perhaps, the rash delights an opposite. The confusing relevance shuts the trifling view, like a scandalous recovery promising misguided Promethean hindsight.