Make language: portmanteau 
outside the German, off the
decidedly not magic mountain

where your lungs breathe the
air that was filtered by the foam 
at the tip of someone else's cigar

that sweet nausea that drives
philosophers to lose the thread
and pretend that math applied to

dictionaries is the equivalent of
happiness while we present prepositions
exist next to artists and fools, tracing 

the lines we thought we had to write,
in cursive no less,
to send the message:

this is bad,
you are wrong,
all must end.

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