Vomitself
There are tragic elements of the undisciplined imagination, the lows that ride on the tails of the various highs it can bring being prime. For instance, it is lovely that I can envision this thing but monstrous that once I produce, I can not reign in my cerebral golem. That thing, the effervescing and far reaching, omnidirectional urge to somehow crack my skull open and pull out it's contents for display. Our private exposition would ask of you to touch the seething mass in the hopes that exactly what I am thinking, feeling, my direct intent and meaning-- would all pass to you through miraculous voltage through pulpy matter from self's deep tomb. The urge to pull from within the source of being must rest in your heart as well. And we can purge and cut and defecate ourselves to places we have never been but never, ever will we find the font of being that is the desired-for first cause and explanans for all that follows from. This is the irremediable human struggle.
Or something.
Or something.