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Listen - make sense of this you Greek:

Mists of Latin verse fog the air, growths of incestuous roots suffocate below bundles of fungi and the battered word - bruised only once by one's punch - ‘dew'. How funny is that. What is this but dust in what paints sorrow, or tremendous ectsasy, in avid illusions? Such extremities are nothing yet compile the great paint for the ever dripping, smudging masterpiece - never is it imperfect. The admiring wolf, who chews irony as he clenches his tongue, would choke you - at first - with concepts and philosophies. But even when we look in the mirror we don't see ourselves - nor generic replies. For my reflection is liquid, I have not yet caught one of the premises of life, I am lost.
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