As an aside, I currently have an open channel with the universe, and I am typing according to what I have been told to type. What follows is a sequence of true streaming through the void that we call pincushion paradise for the sake of otherwise stumpy bodies dangling and remaining like a sardine tin of vague proportions. You see, the fledgling act of vulnerability must counteract that longing, the intense, express yawning that we rifle out every day in fear of scrutiny and a velvet hat matrix squandered freely by baboon children (not actual baboon young, but human children highly resembling the aforementioned creatures).
WHARVED 