Beauty.

Beauty is everywhere.

In the starry romantic prayers of an insane Schumann, setting songs from writers whose initials abbreviate palindromically or sound like the decrepit green bottles of a Korean liquor that washed away our 20s into an alcoholic lake of noraebang frenzies and bright K-Town lights.

In the mean Asian curves of the new NSX and its postmodern comeback to howl into the California night down the circuitous curves of the 280 screaming at the invention of a homogenous culture plagued by aerodynamic zero fades and blacking out tail lights with obscenity divine.

In the solidarity of the love affair between solitude and ash trays, where the black spit filled latter wildly cackles at the pathetic visceral reality of the former and clouds perceptions of truth with a thick smoke, and a surgeon general's warning is drunkenly read in retrograde, and inversion, and retrograde inversion and inversion retrograde and noisrevni edargorter.

In the eye of the beholder, unless the beholder is Newt Gingrich.

In the polluted smog-filled night-sky of the New York City river view, discernibly visible only to the fur-coat elite of the Trump inhabiting penthouse whores and the health-conscious or vanity-stricken runners of the Hudson who twist their emaciated necks to the right running downtown to sullenly glimpse at "une barque sur l'océan" then wonder why Maurice was Basque.

In the sordid memories of the quirky alliterative long love lost, where the sea of tormented tornadoes fought voluptuous volcanoes and anti-climactically produced a pianissimo finale, where dumbfounded confusion killed communication and like a Renaissance poet sank into the alcoholic wine of the tumultuous embrace of eternal romantic pain and solitude.

End post.