There is no fucking formula to formulate thought, unless of course, pardon? No, violation intended. The wee sized lady, enslaved by the fascination to visually probe the nostril region, assembled residence beneath a human drinking trough; therein, an archaic form of castigation is workshopped. She has no feet. Love and a coward fell into bed, no, art, no, tragedy, what? Its over, indeed, for reasons pertaining to your obsessively fastidious aerodynamics and haste to circumvent the real issues. Toast. Cannibalism. Fecal levity. Empathy? Perhaps, but, no. If I may speak on be half of whole, we must not embellish, but rather wallow in our collective affliction, neither questioning nor relinquishing the perturbed semantics of visual, viral, (or) linguisticism.