Fettered by festering fetishes,
a realist, remembering, relishes;
a solipsist savors his selfishness;
and I entertain any embellishments.
In dwelling on this,
are we misfits?
Or merely sand grains
dripping through a closed fist?
Or perhaps, in unison,
we should all just admit
to enjoying the savory
smell of bullshit.
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