The cleaved wet obsidian slope that is adulthood's front yard,
crushed down and made obsolete by Nostradamus' terminating date,
two turns since shows a petrified Pompeii replay,
a quivering static gesture,
gray matter factory made matter of factually grayer,
Quanta cadavers composing the mantle tsunami and a final subjective thrust,
suspended weightless,
a mosquito in the sap of omnipotent insouciance
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