Content Warning: Not for minors, not really for anyone. Why am I even writing this?
We're smoking the Absolute Idea from a zigzag bootlegged from the manuscript of Bach's unfinished 24th Fugue.
I'm the in itself, the for itself, and I'm in and for itself. I'm the thing-in-itself haunting Kant's repressed homoerotic wet dreams.
This zaza got me feeling like a fractalizing 14th century map of the Holy Roman Empire, I can't find myself anywhere in it.
Told Nezahualcoyotl to quit boggarting the pack, he spoke back to me in an alien language that I could only understand telepathically. So we roasted us a Catholic opp boy set for divinity school on a pile of Mayan books and cooked him for 12 hours, ain't nothing haram about his pork.
We're smoking that LCL Fluid infused Terminal Dogma pack, it got me moving through the Third Impact buck naked fiending for DD-cup multiplicities.
I'm the ghost haunting Europe. I'm the magic in the mushrooms. I wished upon the Dragon Balls that Shenron would grow a pussy that I could fuck.
Lickin blunts of lugubrious Lean lettuce, smoked that shit and started speaking Lingua Franca, pure Mediterranean.
I'm smoking Peter Sotos Total Abuse Buyer's Market pure filth in a Chicago gloryhole flicking my ash on the tips.