He talks and talks again, making a theory into a candy, a bike. There is a beyond, for purposes swim in 365 pages, appearing in a book, making things for the impulse. There is something interesting about being interested in sitting, in scythes as fair grounds.
An Italian-American Spaceman Foresees His Death:
Smashing against ashen walls, alone in space,/
Weirdly wired, mind warping/
Through the void, veering over/
The vapid edge of madness, mumbling aloud,/
"Per aspera ad astra, you young asshole./
It’s a rough road to the stars, Rotando."