This foul frizzled treatise, more foul and rank than the ones before, appeases the appetite for words. Insurmountable a task as writing a book may be, “a book being a man, but takes more than passion to write a book,” and so deftly drifting from plotlines, transgressing to modern satire, sarcastic summaries of shared thoughts, quaffed by readers like streaming video, these liquefied banquets pleasing to the pallet, sweet ambrosia smeared in piquant sauce, albeit transient and fleeting their meaning. I aspire to quell the appetite for eternity, extinguish the hatred in your heart, and stick to the ribs: fasten a synaptic connection, and remain forever fixed within the structural header of some stranger’s subconscious.
0 comments:
Post a Comment