The full deck gusts outside the playground briefly forming an aerial house of cards. I see a woodlouse chasing a tiger, and square pegs in square holes. An atom is the part of your throat that sticks out. Every Saturday, I am a bicycle.
Famous Dialogues lie on a table.
Enter Socrates, winged by the medium's dot to dot. Secateured titan, I dreamed a random river whose surface's inflexions shimmered with every possible geometry where all-envisaging blindness hatched and crossed as chance, swollen with potential, surged against the given, sculpting a world where botched and sublime bloomed without design.