An allergy to conviction swells in the bleak face of beauty, cupped in my hands over the fading red-checkered fruitile carpet flooring the hotel lobby
I wonder if I’ll be allowed to slip for a moment and lapse some cognitive energy or if the cultists spy me for a cheap bust of pounding feet
Even so far away, I recompile while the strange metropolis sleeps, curious for the form of conformity manifesting before me like dwelling in the dreary aftermath of arranged comically diverse endeavors
The expanse could be barren or filled with trapped cascading ripples of you Molding the sky to a diaphragm, upsetting my poise I’d like to play my part, thanks