The devil does more damage when he's beautiful. I've got my hands on the wheel running from wolves wrapped in wool. The moon's a spider hanging heavy on a web of stars, whose magnetism makes it easier to start the car.
I'll swallow city lights to keep illuminated on this silent stretch of highway where the urgencies of living fade away into the miles left behind.
Ten million looming luna moths could form a funnel cloud, lift me into the heavens, never let me down again. I'd spiral listlessly aloft upon the wafting wings, watching the centuries go spinning by beneath me.
Let autumn leaves become symbolic, as they fall, for all debaucheries and flaws that caused appalling opposition to us all until the summertime dissolved.
Annihilated by theories that gave velocity to disease and gave my baby shaky knees and swayed us to emergency.
Away with thee, foul Mephistopheles, whose fallacies are fraught with false analogies and plots!
Applause is not appropriate.
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