/lit/ - Literature

The luminous shore blows it's tides, as the clear blue sky hangs above it as far as the eyes could see. Titanic hunks of floating steel docking by the shore, waiting for the free man and enslaved man to gather aboard, bringing hedonistic lunacy with them. Concrete jungle is built upon sand, as if it was an allegory to the foundation of the Babylonian race that built this faux habitation, may God spare their misguided souls. Here I am, I was, and I am to come, striving in the middle of this man made utopia of destruction. Hoiting! Man is vain dear damsel, but I am hoiting!

Slick Shyster, The Pestmeister, as they call me. A stinky dinky Latin aficionado. As conduit waterfall pour on my body, memories of my companions flashed before me. What a impertinence man I was, I played three card on the roadway of no sanity. A Zen poet once said, no mortal man shall intervene with the frog. Grief gracious, am I not anything but the frog! I shall be known, for all eternity, as the deviator of all axiom, the righteous malefactor, and the most repulsing of all, the man of scam. Art is selfless, but I am a scam of an artist. Though I have hid my shaken self behind a million disguises, I still abhor life as a specific being. A terrific, terrific being I am.