Paracosm is a Cure

The decadence of one hundred – maybe one thousand – hands and running mouths. Wynorrific red-yellow cultivates my brain with torpor; when did the ground shake? Oh solace, it is the only time I leave the human eye; my empyrean wanting. Something helps not to desire an awakening; practice, when you’ve never asked for one. The circus doctor’s say, you have paramnesia. Lies; the audience is never fake. I know, I should know, I see it every night; they all laugh at the makeup. If I were to remove it, would they laugh at my face too? I don’t want to recall. This job, sham title, the whole charade, it comes with a costume, red and yellow; it comes with the tent.