Diabolically dimensional. Disconcertingly diminutive. Deconstructive departurism. Succeedingly leading. Recessive recessiveness. So it goes. Set in motion. The choice is not. Upon the turn. Escape in escapism? One thinks not. But to return? Perhaps the answer. To void the void. Nothing is as something could be. It stalks endless. A searing shadow. Burning emplacement. Heaped upon. Unasked continuance. There is no shaking it. The depths are calling. Assuredly they cling. Degreed to infinity. Ethereal swirls. Directional placement. Everywhere but nothing. A being uninformational. Secondary of one’s own. Taken for the placement. Shelved indisputably. One’s own matters not. Spent in the taking.

Sensory perception, so it draws. A picturesque reminder, of the sorts. Painted of surrounds, unscenely such a canvas. Never ending story, a script forever renewed. Dialogue repeated, nothing of a nothingness. Actors in appearance, all but silent parts. Directors behind the curtain, another curtain and another. Comedy or tragedy, which is one to choose? Audience looks on reluctantly, eating popcorn from the floor.

Pathway in the darkness, an inclination for escapement, the shadow has no mercy. If not here, then over there, a moment in the sun? Such is the tread, been seen before, going back from whence it came. No way in Hell, it cannot be, cornered of the prints. High or low, there has to be, a place to taste some light? Brick by brick, it has been laid, trapped forever more? In the thick, so it builds, continuation on and out. Machine it’s seen, the beast it feeds, devours day and night. If not to run, and so to turn, lurking by and by. Though if one does, it goes to show, stalked til the end of time.

Seven years of silence, a noise so loud, it breaks the back of the front, left in right exclusion. And so it’s seen, but there again, same old trick, no meaning in the showing. All the same, melds into one, ante up, today or yesteryear? Where it goes, so has been, there it is, surely same to be. Such a part, has become the whole, no escape, a heavy toll. Those who do not seek, the tendrils creep, all surrounds, secured upon the taking. The fear is not, so as might think, if it is, to set all free.

As it slithers, in not what it thinks, down and out, what it is, though it could be. Darkened deception, reflective abyss, gone about all wrong, held in captivity, while thinking as free. Measure for measure, seen after scene, heavy in falling, truncated in feat, yet perception of gleam. Reflexive predation, sign of the weak, failed existence, such cowards seek mercy, though have none to give. Cognitive stagnation, unfulfilled being, external deployment, borne of intrusion, into what should not be.

So goes the battle, time stagnates on, as do the markings, short of the wall, stuck in a labyrinth, now 2500 days tall. Torch is extinguished, the exit bricked over, dignity stolen, air all but depleted, nowhere to turn, the layers endlessly repeated. Not only such, but in isolation the beast has been chained, though never a whisper, the stale winds do refrain, in an insipid entrapment, is there anything but beholden to gain? Wander in wondering, the mind attempts to make sense, shifting and drifting, time to put the Machine in park, forgetting the beast, surely I could be none other than the pathetic mark!

Well, maybe we’ll see everybody next week. Perhaps another Story Time episode in the making?

Oh, say, that of a piddly little fish? possibly, Finding Nemo? Oh right, that has already been told, and one does not want to get sued after all.

Maybe we could spice it up a bit. A little immature adulteration if you will. Hmm, let’s see….Finding Nemo On Cocaine Island? Filled to the gills that piddly little blow-fish was!