Twenty muses

There exists a beloved wicker that lies above the edge of the sea. Foamy mist, congregating in deep swarms of vivid red, hues of green, dense folliage that covers the night, it is all very alone. Idiotic men, jumping jacks and lumbering lulls all come out to witness the spectacle, that is, the spectacle of the kindred.

There is no solution. Inevitably, there would be a giant largess that triapsed across the ages, across time, to the final destination of love. Perhaps it would be some sort of mental masturbation that pleased the eye, inner eye, but therapeutic treatment is a non-logism.