A question I won’t answer, an impending cancer, a thought I won’t entertain, the creeping revolution of the brain, and George is talking to himself tonight. Who can hear me who can hear me? The limitless yearning, the pining the churning.
The basic fight of the basest writer, and the most long-winded purging onto the Apple-mac pagination.
I am the tallest fig in the world, I own this supermarket like a
Threshing and swift so delicate and gossamer Phoenicians? My ivory silk tower, my tall white gleaming denouement.
How many madmen will be unleashed?