No: épater la bourgeoisie

Everything was austral and azul for the winged entities of the zone when I dropped these nocternal lines.

I mean azul
Listen to the word "azul":
azul
azul
azul.

It's a desertic word that hits you hard in the eyeball, like a hard drop of steel:
AZUL.

Decadence is the only thing that everyone can have; decadents we all are; decadents, blue decadent people, while I break myself in two like an egg-shell that breaks itself from within, in the day of the furious opaque wheels.

And you know what? The damned radiolaboratories are all we have, storing all the silicon from the daufhters to be used. 

For the daufhters to be used.

"Here comes the monosun, little darling, it's all right" and it's the only macrocosmic microparticle divided ad infinitum that still remains WHOLE.ASS.FUCK.

THE DAMNED MONOSUN.

Now the spear of lead succumbed heavily on the orotund meadow populated by agrarian demi-gods and solar loathe: it has fallen there, repugnant, like the erect testicles of Proteus in the bland waters of Janadu floating in easy wanks.

Fuck me, I hate you! Won't you see the splendor? Won't you recognize the splendor in AZUL?

Your decadence and ëgöïsm are so fulminatory that I can't do anything, but fall as well, like a soft minotaur rolling down on the slopes of Eurotas, arid semi-steppe and river of neuronal eau.

Can't you see the azure from the white depths of Meduza, nymph, daughter and slut of the Father Ocean?

Can't your respiration, for one moment, breathe the saline air deeply without the slightest feeling of inadequacy?

Can't you for a moment, let yourself go with the wind without asking why?




NO.