Poor us of endless lies

 It feels. Poor us of endless lies. She is equivocal. Close and drunk. In our footsteps of both. Daily madness of the pleasant search. That in the search he is wrong. The steps upset. It is disfigured in the mirrors. While the glass gets drunk. Shame absorbs the image. Who falls through narrow throat crystalline. Wrong throat. Of threat rupture. Capturer of horror and beauty, of various deformations. Then there is no mirror for laughter or sadness.

Sense, then ex-isto as a hypo/thesis.