The Room at the Heart of the Human Focal Point

It is here as nowhere other Wise, one might help but hum and
saw with the orbital mechanics who constructed a panoptical contusion
meant to keep meaning at the edge of existen(chull, by the beastly bay,

the tales made popular, out out out): forgotten poplars are the point of 
this I-lism, a heart felt pris'm of choice entry, once again opposed to 
where this composes itself of some such free will non sense organ,

fingers and hands play music without score, a game lost prior to the
matches lighter technology, zipped up and down to make hay 
for all the horses you once thought prettier than a face looking up

and to the [stage] right, taking care to raise a child up to ignorance,
in the fashion so amply caught-sat by the more brilliant eyes of superfluity.

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