Strength Does Not Have To Be Belligerent

A Halloween-haired, Sachsgate-enacting, Estuary-whining, Glitter-lacquered, Priapic Berk How Dare I, From My Velvet Chaise Longue, In My Hollywood Home Like Kubla Khan, Drag My Limbs From My Harem To Moan About The System? A System That Has Posited Me On A Lilo Made Of Thighs In An Ocean Filled With Honey And Foie Gras'd My Essex Arse With Undue Praise And Money.

I Didn't Cross The Line, You Drew It In After I Traversed It.

I Keep Hearing In My Head "you Are The Messiah, You Are The Messiah." I Think There's Something Wrong With My Headphones.

For Me Happiness Occurs Arbitrarily: A Moment Of Eye Contact On A Bus, Where All At Once You Fall In Love; Or A Frozen Second In A Park Where It's Enough That There Are Trees In The World.

God Is In The Mountains. Impassive, Immovable, Jagged Giants, Separating The Celestial From The Terrestrial With Eternal Diagonal Certainty. As If Silently Monitoring The Beating Heart Of The Creator From The Universe's Perfect Birth. Stood In The Thin Air And The Awe, One Inhales God, Involuntarily Acknowledging That We Are But Fragments Of A Whole, A Higher Thing. The Mountains Remind Me Of My Place, As A Servant To Truth And Wonder. Yes, God Is In The Mountains. Perhaps The Pulpit Too And Even In The Piety Of An Atheist's Sigh. I Don't Know; But I Feel Him In The Mountains.