This is where we eat metaphors for breakfast...
and shit poets.
We snort coordinate systems to get high and find reflections of ourselves between number bases.
Perfection is but the shell that attempts to define us... and we are the dynamic definition that sodomizes 'perfection' to a delectable departure from delusion, to deteriorate upon the detritus known to us as the dogmata of dharma de-flowered.
We don't have bodies here, we have sex canons... written of the ink drawn from our own nipples upon the membrane of the intersection of infinite dimensions. The pen doesn't stop sexing itself.
Here, we throw new year eve parties... into black holes, just so we can experience the countdown for all of eternity.
Sharpness, to the pu pu purfect leetle point, that da da dances from my tongue, it can never be too precise.