I'm Giving Serious Thought Into Eating Yor

In The Vaults Of Our Hearts And Brains, Danger Waits. All The Chambers Are Not Lovely, Light And High. There Are Holes In The Floor Of The Mind, Like Those In A Medieval Dungeon Floor - The Stinking Oubliettes, Named For Forgetting, Bottle-shaped Cells In Solid Rock With The Trapdoor In The Top. Nothing Escapes From Them Quietly To Ease Us. A Quake, Some Betrayal By Our Safeguards, And Sparks Of Memory Fire The Noxious Gases - Things Trapped For Years Fly Free, Ready To Explode In Pain And Drive Us To Dangerous Behavior.

Back At His Chair He Cannot Remember What He Was Reading. He Feels The Books Beside Him To Find The One That Is Warm.

It Rubs The Lotion On Its Skin. It Does This Whenever It Is Told.

Problem-solving Is Hunting; It Is Savage Pleasure And We Are Born To It.

A Census Taker Tried To Quantify Me Once. I Ate His Liver With Some Fava Beans And A Big Amarone. Go Back To School, Little Starling.