The ceramic chant lost in bubbled dirty rouge, I almost stumbled. My sideways head spilling programing from my ear, crushing it all the more between the thorn-hedge in a primordial garden. Feet pursue in the murk of bad thought and even worse practice. The cuban influence buzzes in my head. Sideways of course. My comfort projected onto me by the scarred sculpture. The ancestor recognizes and approves. Jams with knowledge, grows ancient thought, and cuts with razor. Fire is always the destination, and gives way to darkness even deeper. Marvel at the small molecule as you swallow Leviathan. The early worm catches the nocturnal appetite. Diseased and still makes shells.