There is steeped madness atop mantle piece cliffs as if poised, in reluctant certainty at our hot fate. Somewhere, in the steamy depths of man’s mind, our mind my mind stews and perpetuates fuming intent eroding at the edges, of life for what it is and isn’t or wont be for future tenses and a conceptualizing intensity in a place which hasn’t ever been realized or even moved along a narrow line of directed discourse, dictated dialysis: deviation from the center-ed path of righteous, heavenly glory of the gods, in the clouds, on the prowl in the wicked black of sneering night. For Retribution! For Respiration! For Residual indications on the slick success of cheering fights. and on and on were that they were forever forward still. But were still revisiting things which were never seen in re-wrought thought I thought I saw but not because seeing isn't believing.
And believing isn’t anything really but lengthy listless lists and heavy habitual hope.