We may be fractal, something says, as we float around this universe of concrete and puttyroot.
I was told by none other than the proverbial little birdie secrets about the secrets of the squirrels, that they really don't exist.
Clover echoes from the treetops, but only in the springtime, and only from the tips of the lips of rabbits.
The universe is a mass grave of what we were, are, and will be. Coalescent, we live noncircular, but the galaxies spin out of control in a mobius loop, a figure 8 of unending spit and polish, of incineration and blinding red glory.
Jonathon rides his bike, and the gravel talks backs, and the puddle responds, its concentrics are thought bubbles of oh, there you are!