[Suzerain of Sheol]

I... don't even know what this is, but, my God, I'm not about to look a gift-muse in the mouth.

Someone tell me what this means.

Not of This World

It's the systematic semantic weather-proof convoluted upside-down inexcisable profuse reclusive dance-shattering miasmatic hallow-whispering vestal tradition rationalized through decaying memetic diacritc structures all turning on radio-telescopic mish-mash ventriloquism masquerading with details of palpable grandeur. It's the non-conseqeunces, the inextricable bias-free two-faced forsaken sheltering in livid dreamscapes mounting schismatic art on walls of inarticulate bone and stone, the revival of a spiraling inclination to sun-seared mediocrity bleeding oxygen to save the world from a gift-wrapped anodyne-by-suicide. And there's meteoric significance in things rescinded, lacking a possible prophet we turn to poultry oracles for reassurance, damning the inadequacy of evidence-in-testament, of the obvious-in-transit, a.k.a. a fist-in-the-face, laughing while the library burns on white-washed customs your grandfather died for.