We are intestines.

For the blurry output of my perception I decided to invert the perspective in order to step outside of this transient belt of hers. Statements dissolved into the course of timed leverage grids. For centuries we have been observing manifestations of the winning chance at hands of godless will, hereto claiming spine touches the least.

The sidewalk was laid out in waning suns dropping shadows leaving regrets behind. It seemed to be a valuable experience without consciousness, but in truth it just was obscuring the latter. Rejection of the scene was incrementally drawing horizons in any gap that covered the realm which inhabited the unrecorded, the bypassed; the legacy of any lost second mentioned unnerving the auditions of its sound it left behind after being ignored.

If we recall the previous mentioned it may become a closer to look at obstacle providing us with the necessary micro cosmical information on how the timeless is produced during strings blink and being played with eyelashes.

It just never stops. But I found Cesuacantho being hilariously honest to any single one of us.

We are intestines.

Cesuacantho the Buddha by Jaan Patterson (small)