If you ingest grief, parody is aqua foam, orange foam and broken glass. Now I’ve said everything I know about the nostalgia evoked by kissing your foul hand. 
No meditation spanning surfaces of the woods, no 
massage. No favor of bullet points. So
there’s nothing to bifurcate to render your stinking degeneracy. 

May you come down with writer’s block and slump back into your rotten messianic parole.