The Blueprint to Fading Banners

If they say "objective", "subjective", or "paradigm"
once more, I'll move west, climb to the top of a
mountain and proceed to carve out those things
which penetrate the deepest.  Deepest to what?
Everything.  For what purpose?  The Transsexual.
You've got to eventually meet one sometime.

In the distance you hear a wolf cry, "The older you
get, the cheaper the operation becomes".
To that a fire erupts in us the desire to
complicate everyone else's lives by introducing
the enigma of foreign cultures into everyday parlance.
The comatose of survival has left us begging
softly in the blind hands of our chiropractors,
and a cold place emerges.

In daylight strong men collapse with the
overwhelming sensation of suddenly becoming naked.
"The meat on our bones will decay and
wither without the extra production of economic
foodstuffs".  On the horizon an orange-skinned
crispy with a disco beat invests
a dollar on hope by dying unexpectedly, but
soon enough the branches of legacy creep
in and develop exponentially on that very spot
insuring us that a long journey lies between us and
the ruins of sophistication, a collection of
relics redundantly protected by those whose
power lies only in that of numbers upon numbers.

The benefit of suffering is to know
which desires prevail under harsh conditions.
Splendor wanes quickly to give way for things
dangling almost certainly within one's grasp.
When strings are drawn taut, bait
is forgotten, and the pressure to reach the
end is reinforced slightly.