To whom does the sordid masses not occasionally beckon?
Subscription to which is followed by a surrounding of raddled meat and savage palaver.How easily and often are sirens heard as soprano vibrations. Thrashing against the continent and filth alike. Resonating. Wanton.
Delve not, succumb not. We live for the day and die for it. For love of the pure, let us never. But humor not, feed not.
Unable to abandon the breathing simulacrum to its own unaided level, are we to be subjected to the heat? Impossible to purge into indifference? Licensed to the strangeness?
Lo, and behold, never a slight loss of the old patient rule over the body. Never an exaltation of instinct. A case beyond appeal. Perhaps.