Seven day letter written in a week, makes no sense but was written by me, so. . .
        What the fuck is he thinking chasing away? Gravitational pull and interstellar arrays of mega pixels written in ink, this is what they say about what I think. But the question comes back in cyclical form, paralleled like giants stuck flattened in an orb, but then again who am I but the cynic with the dread in his eye, yes that child that plays and defies,
                                        Oh my! But what a surprise, there is terror in everyone's eyes,  that tomorrow may not come and therein lies that little question that boggles, yes boggles the mind, and the one who said it must be divine, but who is it you may ask, is it I? Oh no harps that leper that's blind. . .
                                                                                                     And then comes the question to mind, is it this leper or is it mine? And who oh atheistic elite, who then shall you defeat? If what who is holy truly does exist then it is possible that the human mind is it?
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                                                                      you and i.






crows mocking patchwork mime, this is me, kiddies, yes d. a. the fine. . .