Oh Perilous World

"Oh, you perilous garden, forever dying.."

Hmm. I cannot fathom how deeply (fathoms, depth, the sea et cetera et cetera) meaningless most of what I have to say is. Which really isn't true. I know just how pointless all of this is first-hand, which is, of course, to be expected. Knees up scraped up down back forth what am I saying, it really was the postscript all along.

Hey, I don't need to make sense(???). I mean, what do you want? What do I write when I can't imagine what to say and nothing makes sense and existentialism is abundant in the face of absurdity. Murmurs which flicker through the walls aren't truly whispered but shouted, and definition is turned around. Do we need this? Do you know what happens when entropy becomes the law and silence is impossible? True silence is just as deafening as the blood brass sounds, you know all too well. "As do I," said Swan, a sentiment which marked his downfall. Bedwarmer bedwarmer bedwarmer on cold nights did unCrow call him forward, which Stoat was quick to use against him.
Something to amuse yourself with, when dreary days grow all the shorter, leading to thick, black nights, decadent claustrophobia drawn from the velvet curtains.


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