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November 1, 2020
Climbing the mind, gulfs of scattered birds, fiery wing tips spark thoughts, a fury of ideas, whirlwinds we may never touch but inhabit. Such is the glory of being alive in mind, in thought for the raptures of creation where the mind rides its horses of fire as if to kill the rider. We claim our rights to the maelstrom of creative thought, yet we decry its very existence by the necessity of droll banalities rushing the crystal town we created, a tsunami of idiocy. We hold to. Nothing will jar us, tear us off this raging river of sewage.