Incoherent.

Aching on a Sunday afternoon we walked around the hazy town of Summerville, lying bareback in naked rags and colt blue cloth. The Regatta wasn't open that night and in any case my wounded will to fight for these clever collections of carbon was melting under the sun. No the first line of parliament to the east belongs solely to freedom and its noble heirs. To the ancient wrecks of time who were cast ashore in drift storms of old millenia. To the steel knights and the grand templar with cloths that beam the purest white. To the light before the dawn that peeks over the cracks of the slumbering mountains. All of this is entertainment. Entertainment of the cortex and the funky bunch, snorting long lines of cocaine from the hypothalamus' teats. Watch your tongue.

I laughed in ink before the sunday afternoon.