A.K.A Hoi palloi, in the end, Plebicians and phonecians, take to eloquently describing my past and how I feel, Proliteriat automaton self aware but unable to solicit help, the mind must melt, kismet with the downtrodden believing oneself an elf, ludicrous, duplicitous and too spurious
Illiterally literate, in cujoled state unable to offer liberation for the fog of the blind, the malcontent must find the axe to cut down the forest to see the trees, and write themselves leaves upon the pages of may as well be blank books, winked and hooked carepegnicious incendrinations of the mind of a kind, insipidly making off with your lives daring and brave, in the forest of Sherwood rather than in the Bat cave.
Instamatic cameras taking pictures of the world, seeing all except that they hide, blind, unkind and hurtful, disrespectful, but then surprised at disruptful
We’re all en monde, but personally I’m forced to use doublre entend
as a wand, marking out escarpments of your minds, and placing quarries of thought I hope you’ll find.