To wear with extraordinary panache the cloth of heresy. To reveal that long ago an event, outside the ranges of probabilities, has indeed led to the exhumation of an apocalypse about ourselves we had always thought unearthable. Testifying to the fact that innocence has indeed recoiled from any paradigm that threatened to infiltrate the forecasts we had meant to redesign for our own personal use. Protecting history from unlawful premonitions. Branding it as part of an epic disaster best forgotten.
As we came to embrace pretensions, recoiling from the ghosts of misfortune, our soul’s defenestration chose to fully advertise itself. Contemplating the fundamental soundness of precipices. The depictions of delusions and the mightiest tombstones we could conceive, while no one exuded alarm.
Instead, tyrants echoed, with rapt attention, the exact dimensions of our foolishness. Their technical questions combined to wisdom ready to gather wildly significant epigrams to support the wide distribution of ignorance. An ocean of supine orators, singled out for their dreadful brilliance, blinding the mutes. Our urge to capture censorious omniscience totally at stake. Liquidating ourselves by the same occasion, caught in flattery and suppositions, as we presumed we strongly believed in something. Always inclined to resent poetical adversaries, from time to time ditching the champions of semantic crashes, their willful evocations warning us against the very lack of ego put forth by the pregnant teachings of efficient and overly sane regulators. Epochal failures occupying every corner of fervent populist dreams of ascension.
We often bespeak disgrace. Quite occupied at embarrassing ourselves, the habitués of immunized memory, and the vast, vacant territories it dutifully neglects.
Poetry against funny popping bubbles, circular parallels drawn between our delirious state of mental prosperity and the complete terms of our surrender. Unlearning the misspelling of transparent shiny spherical voids into collections of highly quotable lifelong mistakes. Providing intense heat to controversies and histories ruffled by feathers dipped in lemon juice to write in a land where flames have never been seen.
Laolao
As we came to embrace pretensions, recoiling from the ghosts of misfortune, our soul’s defenestration chose to fully advertise itself. Contemplating the fundamental soundness of precipices. The depictions of delusions and the mightiest tombstones we could conceive, while no one exuded alarm.
Instead, tyrants echoed, with rapt attention, the exact dimensions of our foolishness. Their technical questions combined to wisdom ready to gather wildly significant epigrams to support the wide distribution of ignorance. An ocean of supine orators, singled out for their dreadful brilliance, blinding the mutes. Our urge to capture censorious omniscience totally at stake. Liquidating ourselves by the same occasion, caught in flattery and suppositions, as we presumed we strongly believed in something. Always inclined to resent poetical adversaries, from time to time ditching the champions of semantic crashes, their willful evocations warning us against the very lack of ego put forth by the pregnant teachings of efficient and overly sane regulators. Epochal failures occupying every corner of fervent populist dreams of ascension.
We often bespeak disgrace. Quite occupied at embarrassing ourselves, the habitués of immunized memory, and the vast, vacant territories it dutifully neglects.
Poetry against funny popping bubbles, circular parallels drawn between our delirious state of mental prosperity and the complete terms of our surrender. Unlearning the misspelling of transparent shiny spherical voids into collections of highly quotable lifelong mistakes. Providing intense heat to controversies and histories ruffled by feathers dipped in lemon juice to write in a land where flames have never been seen.
Laolao
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