Cold-pressed Time

The cycle of semantics seems inherently compelling swelling jelly swirling hell he barely gropes to stay afloat among a mass of messy sea to see two seers who be freer than the sleepers— who peep once— know the ensconced persons want one per bun but don’t get none (his will was done when he shot gun then run begun and won’t come home to comb the loam tomed in his bones, he can’t become a humdrum bum from Mumma’s slum ‘cause scars cut far, stuck in black tar, ash wafts above bizarre cigars); thus rush to brusquely thrust… he must.