Our destination is not northbound, as we hasten through those dreary woodlands where teardrops explode like incendiary regrets into deep puddles of misplaced trust and the awareness of lost opportunity.
You presume to be a pupil of the teachings of Horus.
I can see those excavations within the darkened cavities of your eyes.
The evidence of hieroglyphic ambiguity has unfolded her rich deposit of convenient and tidal avoidance.
Therefore, let us swim to Kepler and ride those sonic ripples beyond the unraveled and ancient texts of Nekhen.
The harlot has spread her wings, and the nerves twitch inside our optic vulnerability at the power of her seductive prowess.
As it is possible to have sight without vision, I express my animistic gratitude to the cosmos, where detachment from the socket of Atum is connection to infinity.
The writing is on the wall.