I want us to imagine
the cosmos as a suppository.
Supposing your predictions fill with blood,
will you then assert
the supremacy of the wiggle?
Get off my mojo, personification of Dunning-Kruger.

I still believe in Santa, after all,
and that means most of us are fucked.
I still believe my conscience is a trained octopus,
and my will is good, yeah-eah-eah yeeeeeeeeeeah.
Stone the way with orthopedic insoles.
This isn’t meant to console you.

-r. miller

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