excerpt from my book on how to destroy script.

Compliments for a Cubist
Subtracted midrange from the wheel of art of factual information: delete vowels.
Extricate critic from binary collage: montage, facsimile, veil, ghost, etcetera.
Neon Buddhist simile swerving syntax in tow and Tao.
The existentialist who’s name may be Eeyore believes the assumption of written character, once broken, only exists in cliché (“…just as long as one stays French and like remains the same as love,” the jackass mumbled.
Aimer:
“Fate has her funny way of being him,” Mary Shelly once wrote to Hans Christian Anderson. “Oxymoronic only when not been given the proper digestion that thought needs to produce narrative, and considering you‘ve not been brain washed already by Western thought.” She concluded in her letter a crude stick figured drawing of what she assumed he would not put word to image as being Frankenstein’s monster…A Freudian metaphor for her love for him before its time, that only history could rewrite.
Hans left Copenhagen in his latest of years for a warmer climate for the benefits of his health. Still longing for Kierkegaard to acknowledge his relevance, undoubtedly, but more his general existence as someone whom suffered loneliness and solitude the same as he: thinking, aberrations, hallucinations, being, nothingness…
In a poem written by a then teenage test tube baby made with the DNA of Hans, a forlorn shadow of existentialism peeks through verse in a way only Hans could tell a story…and in a strange twist, predicts the ghoulish acts that happened upon a lake in Indian Territory in the months of January and February of 1847...

[excerpt]
I’ve dreamt of many things:
A little prince, an ugly duck,
and Donner flesh to eat.