So I steer a loxodromic cut away from this setting phase of Now, pursued not by hellish hounds but by the very doubts that drive me into nocturnal lucubration, stretching within my grasp the evolutionary Expressionism lurking vestigial. The snide calculus has failed to predict this untrodden mud uprisen to beckon unto me the cerebral precision and gleeful stance with exactitude of rage for which I have full incubus. This is so. The anterior movement of mind is preponderant as time vacuums me closer to my lugubrious kismet. As such, a rising star will reign and I will allow the syntax of my days to cure.
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