Sonata No. 2 in b-flat minor, Op. 36, Sergei Rachmaninov:

What do we do but pass along the flights softly---the very prick of the pine needles on the back of our necks---a scary story for many---a place of great self-deceit for others---that there may be another way out is always sought after---a place of secrets---a place of combustion & nostalgia---in that same place we find the provocative effort of our siblings and forefathers---of our blessed non-believers---of our leftover lasagna self-patterns back-jumping and doubling out and over the rigid---motion movements and paralyzing pavements---the end of the neutralizing patterns---peaches and others---garbage & yucky nature of the matter---yellows and pink rainbows---dancing in the rain mist---the early morning silence and peace---the tender cold of the rising air---the animals all awakened around you---you forget why you’re here---you look for other reasons---you consult yourself & maybe even babble backward to you in a mirror of your choosing---finding that line of select credit---validation o’ so important from the other sheep---trembling and bubbling---bounding---surfing and surf & turfing---rattling out the bullets---making verbs where there seem to be only nouns---finding meaning, again, where there most assuredly isn’t any---passing foreign objects on as the essential vitamins of a USDA fortified daily breakfast---losing weight when others are still trying to find their way out of the shed when the lights have blown---feeling not responsible to anything---tip-toeing across the stage---swearing to yourself that you were a ballerina yesterday and today, well, today you are the forth cousin of mother goose---you got da juice to get loose---bravo---tell the street sergeants---the men in black---the perpendicular perpetrating petrified painting flabergastors---Lopado­temacho­selacho­galeo­kranio­leipsano­drim­hypo­trimmato­silphio­parao­melito­katakechy­meno­kichl­epi­kossypho­phatto­perister­alektryon­opte­kephallio­kigklo­peleio­lagoio­siraio­baphe­tragano­pterygon for dinner!  Lopado­temacho­selacho­galeo­kranio­leipsano­drim­hypo­trimmato­silphio­parao­melito­katakechy­meno­kichl­epi­kossypho­phatto­perister­alektryon­opte­kephallio­kigklo­peleio­lagoio­siraio­baphe­tragano­pterygon for dinner!  and Aristophanes tells me that i shant not eat it---no i shant not eat it because it contains fish & rotted dogfish & possibly crab, crayfish or shrimp & thrush (da poor liddle birdy) & sea fish & blackbird & chicken & roasted head of dabchick & hare & wings & fins of randomly selected commiserable hapless ill-fated rueful unlucky & wretched little creatures!  the A-man he sayeth so because you see I’M A VEGETARIAN!  I’M SOMETHING OF A HERBIVOROUS RODENT!  though by choice most assuredly, i must admit---still, the reality is there---you see i cannot come to the party if i cannot enjoy what is going down---ah yes, you get it now---and you and i listen again, for we might have missed something, no?  poker chips go flying---the players, they are hungry---dostoyevsky is tired---he’s been here all night amidst the cigar smoke & lager---vodka and wine---having an unsatisfactory take-home pile, he retreats to the bathroom and escapes out the window---walking in the snow, he curses his own stupidity and trudges onward into the st. petersburgian silvery starred sky night. 

Author's Note

keep on truckin'.