between these lines, lie the thousand words i have yet to speak, & each blackened space leaves a deafening silence that brings you to an elysian dream where our hearts coalesce in this meta of redolent insouciance; my lusus naturae being drenched by the mercury within this thermostat: leaving my mind to wonder what more i have to exploit, to use, to fill upon these virtual pages; & how long will i continue to test my limits when i am losing under this cataclysm; this abundance of lugubrious sonnets.
               
—and why does my heart continue to climb this slippery hill wherein this rhythm resides; but you do forget that thousands (of poets) before me have clambered upon this very same hill; their effort being drenched by the blossoms that bloom over each apotheosis; to reach their destination, of dominicus aphelion! so far away yet so connected to these burning threads humbling their willowy breaths, so am i not another cherry destined to attest to this apostle, my fate; upon these stairs, whilst the souls (of these poets) grab my hand & lead me on, up these worn steps—now i may attain the same feat as them whilst these filaments of molten gold take hold over my wayward heart, transforming me into this saccharine lox of crystallized doom.