Vividly mortal on the verge of outrageous ideals blending in with the flowing concept of a caged singing bird longing for the final chaos only the wind will ever bring, undergoing the slow progress of the third wave of the futuristic trance. Analyze the crux of new age black holes characterizing your mind with mine, never fall in love while you're dead asleep at the wheel; turning degrees higher than the circling star above the golden ceiling, and despite the rough hard intellect one poem by accident or purpose will bring any being to their knees, cutting off your tongue for her motherly instinct outside any language, and further than any classic realm reborn of dying art forgotten of by beautiful deceptions and silver screens dreams.