Moe–ing the day away, pissing into a sink in the mid-dream filth of a lovely beautiful experiential cluster of atomic love, sike. Please piss into the secondary dream state of a through-fare inessentialness, it is consequentially an adverbial sojourn into the thickening forests of love. Who is this person? Who is the end? Where will the life go on to resume its inconsequential love of inconsiderateness? Looking for the escape there is only the… resumation. Consummating the love of the third child born to the Chinese horoscope moon, shaking my hips to the inconsequential rhythm of the temporal dimension of the universe. Hi there my love. I am coinciding inside the secondary dimensions of a cluster of atomic universes. Multidimensionality cannot love me. Where is the secondary dimension of the firmament? The firmament demands the secondary work of the third-teenth wonderment of the unicorn sunflowers. I think I am going to jump into a moon-soaked puddle on the third Sunday of the month named after the second Roman emperor to consider the consequences of the ambition that seeks to dominate and second the secondary schizophrenic work of espionage inside the third thing that comes to get the monster living inside the love of the universe, at an atomic level.