oh how they shine in the firmament and elegant furniture of geometry
but would they say then that what had been could have been some rude graffito on the barndoor or even outhouse of a fading penumbra that silent faceless pilgrimage on the way to skull rock a chicken scratch upon eternity and that the fairest muse was a frog-faced Auffrischung Magenfeld with a nail through her skull and a tiny pig for a sceptre or ornament representing the primeval chaos of tongues and that her magical brooch was a rotary chopping blade etched with the sacred names of atomism which like the names of the fallen soldiers in the battle of the Devil's backbone are largely unknown except to scholars of the lore of the 'Civil War' a term we just might call an oxymoron as if the breath of history itself is a grotesque stupidity grew some as if the innocent singing molecules which give us 'life' are both dumber and more beautiful than Great Chief Language-No[i]se.
