Do you think I'm cold heart-ed? Well, I inhabit a deepfreeze. I dwell in a fridge. I was raised in the Tundra. Maybe it's just my nature. Oh, to be talking trash and thrashing, kicking cups off the coffee table.

Do you think it pleases me to keep chrysalids? It's for these reasons that I reassess the samples. I do nibble on the pieces, little bits of a thesis are sneaking in through a personal jesus. My eyes are inside out, upside down, and filled with doubt. Duplicate lines, sleep decay, dreaming passed what I can say, and I think looking back, spacious and ungrateful, must have been a mistake. Oh well. Refrigerate the past.

Concave view of the cave. I'm no sort of mine for diamonds. I'll mime the events that shaped me into such a complex. Whitewash for tolerance, it was all self-loathing gluttony anyhow. I've been mustering up some personal antibiotics for division, a schism. Slap on the dijon and call me uncle! My eyes are inside out, upside down, and filled with doubt. Duplicate lines, sleep decay, dreaming passed what I can say,

and enough of my muttering, my stuttering, i can make this buttery.

[any combination of words in the following sentence for this line: I had a vision of division with a schism with division of a schism in division with this vision...[etc, you get the idea]]

SON, PUT SOME FUCKING SKIP IN YOUR STEP.

My eyes are inside out, upside down, and filled with doubt. Duplicate lines, sleep decay, dreaming passed what I can say. And Oooh, to be talking trash and thrashing, kicking cups off the coffee table! Put some fucking skip in that step! SLAP ON THE DIJON AND CALL ME UNCLE!