higher order sinews and blankenship striations

Flayed isotropy sullenly marks its own grave. Stark standards bobble and shake in the thin green lines of the ice-nostrils. Beauteous liniment cream bottles evolve from toothpaste jars. Jamboree me a messerschmidt teratomy, all red, crablike, violent, and restless. Project not thy extensions from within the mirrors of taxidermy. Rabid red rust fractals oscill and perfudder. Mary waves foliosely at Gargen as the setting sun rarefacts and makes its nightly doppler death. Gan mates with glans, languorous epistles to Lord Gouraud lost in the etherscapes turn up years later in old champagne bottles. Royalty makes its sad little dance. Princes and parsimonious paupers graciously offer their hands. It's not end times. It's not beginning times. It is no time. The thin deep brown-orange-purple twang of the sitar ululates against the stangstones. Suncliffs and archgulfs misted by icebursts, watercrashes, and steamquakes burblingly bear nature's own no-witness to the events: all is harrowed, hallowed, and lost in the blur. Seminal works by artisans and alligators remain uncatalogued. An era of simplification and complexification melodically intertwingle in the syncopated dance of all sentiences. Thar be an essendine, a burgeoning plume of stacked, intermingling simplexity and complefication finding a yet unsurveyed blood red arroyo in novel equipoise. Gnarled ice filaments tangle and stumble around the yet unfrosted season. Staunch ardworts and lessengues, crackling, blistering, browning and dessicating fall to the ground, instantly self-ashing, their non-nitrogenous semantic constituents to be digested and transfigured into new prosperity. Thinly, the distant echo of unabridged clarion-ring of perpetual, lazy, pan-trapezoidal meaninglessness that is our curse and our sunglasses pulses through the void, scrambling and dancing it's own arctangent tanzy, until the sequences of syncopated waves and exhalations finally is subsumed in the seas of uncordoned suchness. Dizzy sallowals and clasp-aigrettes for the prototypical transastrological fakir burn uncontested and unconcerned amongst the strewn cloudfronts. Knowingly, the art is never yet dead. Someone, whether here or twelve trillion parsecs away in another time-sheave of a far and distant landworld on a echoingly unaeonic orthogonal perceptual space will take it up again, balancing random filaments of chaos with deep contrails of iridescent violet structure, bringing the sloshing wet fury of the dance back from the dessicated paper fragments of the deep.