verbosity on vellum

the funeral games of the Middle Ages.  pockets full of ashes. and a yellow mop bucket with an akimbo-armed stick figure: we all fall down.  but first it is just you.  the world.  the world is spinning around like a child latched to the cold painted pole of a four-swinged swingset.  elevators beep.  stand clear of the closing doors.  dandelions and dragonflies spawning amongst each other, with each other.  everything is flying.  walled cities float by unencumbered by the tests that they failed for the maintenance of their sanity, their sanctity.  joking, laughing, legs hooked around stalks, knee-backs irritated in the upturned soil.  tell me a tale of yore-days, of late-night table-sitting.  fueled by a focused fault.  we have lost our goal, our tract of land.  lost it to the approaching notion of consistency.  my hair is falling out.  eye-corners enact their role as trickster once more in this sweepingly  archetypal production.  the all-encompasser that you are, you shall dictate the usages, proper and improper.  by definition, naturally, this adherence's requirements are astutely fashioned.  everyone is from another country, including myself.  i am not from here.  i am from there.  a childish routine it all is, steeped in leaves of a time-wasting acridity.  what does it all mean, anyways?  what does it mean any of the time.  fresh contacts manufactured, or rather, manifested.  there is a difference.  there is a lute string or two being plucked, overheard overhead.  everyone was so used to death, so used to suffering.  fourth (+ n) nature.  indices of indexes.  page numbers used for the very first time.  the smells of the burning fields, the woolen mills overtaken by tainted germs.  doubly.  doubted.  the sad festivals of birthing, tears fountain outward and upward at the presupposition of a freshness.  stagnancy, at last, rushes in on the paws of unexpectedly fast bears, raking at the murkiness in hopes to make lucid a solution.  it is that transparent (on all levels here).  movable type, a half-dozen millennium too late, at the very least.  it all sounds so old in my ears, the repetitions and predictable conclusions do nothing to assuage this momentum, like oxen suddenly finding their scapulae unyoked.