My Crimson Hexagon

There would you think be a dark place to hide if you had to find one, even without the dark monsters waiting with their disposable beaks and incorrigable fantasies to smooch you without remorse. Intellect being what it is, there could have been some forces to be reckoned with, in all honest, but through out the desert there are people who have planted their feet hard enough to consider home home. Guessing it would be appropriate to beg the pardon of the future wife is never a mistake, but burning up the stomach with a series of nonsensical barings of the teeth can't describe the colors the way they were meant to be activated, ugly though the thought of something like this might be. You seem to never really know whether you are lost, a place that you wouldn't mind getting lost in, because there are so many doors to other places that only need to be peeked at to send your mind soaring in many different directions, places where if you thought to hard the breeze would begin to chaffe and instead of being brought someplace new you find that there are wriggles where there should be no dois. A labyrinth is what I am thinking of here, a place where there are how many books would I have to look through in order to find my own life on the page, what kind of shuffling could I be doing? And someone once said about me that I was an enormous book with a thousand pages, really well written and when you open the book to a random page there is just that one bit of me but there is so much more that you don't know. And the best part about it is that none of it is a secret. How many times have you wondered whether something you have just done has ever been done before, or how many times? The sum total of all infinity is described by the millionth monkey, and what sort of a life do you think he had?