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Ceiling Theatre of the Closet Divine

Don't tell me the laws of physics when you witnessed the syrup of silver light poured down my throat and heard tale of my deed at the birth of the Walrus King.

The Harbinger of the Monkey Mask put its eyes in a pocket and intoned the verses of Carpet Cleaning while echos of dust bunnies climb aboard the corset lacing and sleep against the smooth, stoney skin.

Although twin snowflakes explode in HER mouth, the washroom is full of sand. I sit on a dune and ponder the sliver of skin caught in my teeth while tetrahedrons dance spirals through the sky.

I don't claim the dove's breath, but the harvest in June was far more than the river thinks should be.  The castle banner flaps at the discussion and would frankly rather be left alone.