prometheus andru235 here i am, a-blathering, but i'm told i do it wrong. for that i spam, some skites do sing it seems that there's but one skite song. my words, you say, do stink like play-do and for my banishment, you now do call. very well, please send for phaedo to visit me in my prison stall. whats the point of brand new things when your biases remains the same? a whirling network, a phone that rings: your inner animal these cannot tame. and tho' you love, [which is the key], you hide, hide in your thinkings; from passion, turn; to fore-sight, flee- your shit remains a-stinking. what, in the galaxy, will you find as resources you gluttonously guzzle, while to your needy, you remain blind? a laboratory cannot solve most puzzles. and so, i blathe the wrong way, aye? it's just the same as the age of copper when in the street, you hoped i'd die fer refusalizing to speak wit' you proper. with uranium as your source for energies to fuel your fire why reproach andrUranium's course? you created the problems, sire! so, you wish that i'd abate? clearly you do not share my vision. anyway, i am here to illustrate there's a spirit in the things you fission. foresight, sure, it has its worth but it certainly isn't a king. spontaneity, and spiritual mirth, are also titans clad in wings. made of mud, or made of clay fire won't change your station! to reach new forms, there's but one way for only death brings transformation! 051128 what's it to you? who go blather from