431.

Such cold comfort is
the line of ashes from heart's
moratorium.

430.

Little monkey boy,
born under an octopus
moon, here flourishes.

429.

All the linguistic
hieroglyphics history
struggles to have seen.

428.

Angels are a soft
ideal, leering in judgment's
blind usurpation.

427.

That little girl, set
already as a problem
conformist, stuttered.

426.

Sometimes, I get so
unbelievably tired
of having to think.

425.

All the mirages
of insular living leave
only emptiness.