You Can Only Dream Aidan Pike Through a threshold and out of the inclement And torrential hypethral sky, Balagus glass keeps the acidic deluge ashore, From the inner dwellings of the bletherstakes store And razzmatazz of the cloudburst, Plethora of conglomerate thingledos and uproarious doohickeys, Shelves of balungaloos and tritoodalics and jars containing optical jesutifits, Footsteps wander and caloojulate throughout, Keeper of the bletherstakes’ wilujery and misfortunes Sold innumerable masses of trinkets and all belong to nobody, Belonging to nobody but himself, Himself is undetermined, maybe a bragujulus, Maybe a narzuwhitz, but all return in search, In search of themselves through him, Himself contains all, Everything but the thing you need, Himself is a bletherstakes and knows all, Only the bletherstakes honestly know none, Possessing only some or all of codswallop and truth, Truth of all is not yet known, The bletherstakes know diddlysquat, All you’ll find in their wretched emporium Are eyes of balagus bugs and wings of vormeers. This store you’ll find at the denouement of a road, A road of which no one has been or ever will be. If only people would dream, then the truth could be a thing.
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