THERE

Metaphysics intrinsically cannot have what one deems an exposition; it rests in its non-presence as your cock promises a future, “here I cum,” attributed to a self-undermined, but still projecting “where are you?“ It is an inadmissible formation, a derivation from the groundwork, an implicit irrational account that what is not there gives more. Soft cock and spiritual anything spill a fear matrix that cannot spell predicate. However, there is a difference: metaphysics stops where it begins; its location is self-personal, a composite that feigns, but proceeds with an embraced immutable hold. While a dysfunctional cock can support a ventured hope to at least oscillate between this and that, hope that is, absorbed by design, and my want, your prayer moves to confirm everything constituted and indissolubly dries me up.