Oopsy toolip, whoopsy flour, pocket full of poses. Ashes, smashes, we all stand straight.

This isn’t poetry, sounds or meaning, but it certainly is, all of that, or none of it. So what, if not, by the normal means. The original Socratic thought wisdom the means of purifying our virtue. But whose wisdom? Surely not his which says there is none. Nor hers which said art.

Then whose? While God is away. You there! Yes, your wisdom. Be my arbiter brother. Surely you think these words, even feel them. By wisdom? What say you? No surely not. Then how is it that this nonsense work. Random seems a more noble life, than by our conditioning. Art then, at least us. But is this random nonsense not also from my conditioning?

Merry is the go around.