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January 11, 2011
If I could, the song of my aethereal divide collects nothing solemn or sorrowful assuming a grandeur apart or confabulated on the adjunct theme once heard or allowed; centered on polite confusions, what was believed nightmarish and holy unconfined, the rapture I take to mind, soul and the core whereby consciousness is conceived as the unbegotten son sired by invisible delight stirred horror written for a quaint confluence or the tribes beholden to wishing...again that infernal disquiet married to numb, dumb, sullen and stubbornly dead ex-poets. What no man has permitted, I've been unduly, unfairly assigned and bonded.