Incoherent 1

Opening, we tread into gateways of the future that descend to where no-one remembers to have gone, to have tried nor wanted, for they are tied like strings into a knot of normalcy, used to but a little trembling through the devil's torch itself. But to unravel, or to bring the knife to one's mind, to sever the conscious kitchen from necessity, from the streamlined factory of linear time, of constant order itself, like a man who left the faith of the church grounds to descend the cliff walls into the gully of his soul, where reflexivity - that curse that has yet to unravel itself, would pioneer the method of mad truth, turning to its gravity substance as he tumbles out of the nighmarish bed into the centre of everything, where no encirclement of time awaits, only a slow accumulation of wounds, covered cleverly with metaphysical masks, or a scepter, or a wand, or beauty.