All that I do or will say to you will be transparent and alarming paradoxes full of appraisals and mayflies. Do you and your Doberman pincher concur as well as I do? Of course you do. Now thus begins the joint custody of my paradoxical-rheumatoid arthritis!
I make pink things such as splinters pursuing down an infants back, exploring the many regions of peach,soft skin and liquid fresh blood like that of an early morning grapefruit diet. The splinters shimmy their way in puncturing the child, like pins so easily enter fabric. I mould my visions into voyeurism is unto you via television screen. I hear you screaming. I know you would like this torture of sight to cease. However, it must continue for the paradise of paradox, it bubbles up like boiling waters in a cauldron's mystery brew. You and I know what that mystery is. We have held it in our hands before. Yet, the rope slipped away from us. The Gods play tug-of-war with our human hearts and genitals. Our own becoming blooms in our head. None of which you see is real. It is all the hormones.