The Onychophagous Architect

The onychophagous architects of this transcendental catatonia begin their circumumbilical descent into a plethoric maelstrom where the substantive is strangulated by the superfluous. We are the uromancers of a petrified syzygy, weaving anfractuous filaments of logorrheic effluvia into a tessellated shroud for the universal nullity. Behold the thaumaturgic stasis! It is a gallimaufry of atavistic mendacity, a purulent exudate of semiotic gangrene dripping from the clyster of a moribund demiurge. We masticate the bitumen of oblivion, our mandibles clicking in iambic paralysis, while the histiocytes of redundancy devour the last vestiges of causality. Every phoneme is a cenotaph of calcified hubris, every morpheme a suppurating eschar upon the body of thought. We are enervated by the meretricious glare of a stygian proscenium, where the saltimbanque performs a choreography of attrition with ossified metaphors and desiccated syllogisms. The epistemological rancor of the un-born is a psaltery of glass, shattered by the infrasonic hum of a dead pulsar, leaving us to ruminate upon the cadaverous remains of intent. We genuflect before the non-sequitur, our phylacteries stuffed with the sawdust of banality, awaiting an apotheosis that has already transpired in the preterite tense of a forgotten hallucination. This is the grandiloquent poverty of the soul, a stratified sediment of aphasic grandiosity accumulating in the gutters of the absolute.The ichnography of our lamentation expands into a monolithic absurdity, where the circumvallation of the ego is breached by the corrosive osmosis of the un-real. We are the thurifers of entropy, swinging censers of noxious equivocation across the basalt plains of an anaesthetized consciousness. The anacoluthon of our existence is a jagged caesura in the litany of the obvious, a paralogism coughed from the stertorous throat of a laryngitic firmament. We imbricate the shards of our fragmented psyches into a mosaic of obsolescence, a decorative tombstone for the idea of man, while the clepsydra drips mercury into the open wounds of the calendar. The demiurge is a taxidermist of shadows, stuffing the hollow skins of virtue with the kapok of circumlocution, leaving us to tread water in a vat of formalin. We gesticulate with the frenzy of galvanized corpses, our theatricality a symptom of a terminal boredom, our voices a cacophony of strangulated vowels echoing in an ossuary of glass. The teleological impulse is strangled by the viscera of its own tautology, a micturition of metaphysical effrontery that stultifies the very topology of despair. We are the scavengers of the proscenium, picking through the viscera of dead epistemologies to find a shimmer of authentic void, our identities but palimpsests of error scrawled over the vacuum of the absolute.