Innocence forsakes cleverness at the rusty bridge of desperation where it marks time with irradiated drops of wine plopping in the river of derangement. Over and over, popular tunes monotonously sing of it at the fuzzy limn of contorted meaning. Adapted from a rhinous substance dripping from sniffling clichés, it vaporizes jaded crystal and counterpoises suicidal phantasms.

The pith of intoxication is in its fermentation. For in the belly of distraction is the errantry of conspicuousness. Like a bearded clam that refuses to read “Carapatical Associations,” each endive forseeds the capitalization of its bilingual torpitude—a process that is collectively rummy.