Morbid ruminations and an endless rehashing of the sights that constitute my visual being are on blast.
Conjuring a historical misfit, I exorcise the anxiety entombing his guilt; this cosmic clown was born on earth instead of the stars.
Bananas can’t be human, because we eat them. Yet here they exist, Freudian sight-gag or unaware jester, haplessly enduring the toils of banality.
The punchline has no setup, and the audience is growing restless. take my life, please.
