the harboring (danger) of this exalted appetite

Admitted, in passing, to the rather rude pleasure of the skeleton, now un-sewn and straddling that dragging mule (pompous in age, rejecting, now, perhaps even pleasantly, my advances--I have tender advances on wild animals now tamed)--he is not ever wild, she exclaims, though notably, she too, it is again admitted, has found comfort in the softly crumpled frame, skinned, and bleached, humped across the rider's seat, all but a glimpse that it was indeed a once un-skinned habitual thief. It is unbecoming, she supposes, aloud, for once, no longer attacking her upper jaw with her jowl, ha, her sense (why it is potentially an over extending hand, an applause to the myriad of the helpless cyclops village - yes, those, I did not make such sure advances, no, I was more cautious), at least in pretense, in the purposed suggestion, that it would be appropriate, most suitable, to engage in a more circuitous path, one far more adequate, though inadequate certainly in multiple uncomfortable hindrances. But the mere explosive nature, though far from the skinned and bleeding man, of a skeletoned and harbored offender, a now crude example of that egoist diatribe, well, certainly, against perhaps better sense (again that cultural supposition), it is agreed, for their normative induction - deduction - will condemn this exploitation. Hah, she scoffs, again unforgiving, it is an exhibition, we should, in all haste, make for the marsh villages, parading as such, a skinned head, a skull, at the very height of our philosophical identity, returning to them, those rogue imbeciles, that very glimpse of doubt. I am not an ape, he interrupts, quite aggressively, perchance, exhausted by the utter melt of dominant metaphors (the ghastly possibility of such horror) now realized without poetic distance, but merely truthful, yes, she is correct, truthful exhibition, oh, dear mule, you cruel sexual magnet. How evasive! It is a gentle discourse, for certain, we are so certain, yes, our philosophical hierarchy far surpasses that of the meager collective utilitarian latrine, but, yes, but it is certainly not adequate, not nearly sufficiently adequate a path to be taken, to be ventured, against that damning contradiction, those damning counterculture whores--I have said it, she agreed, and dearly that dear mule acquiesced, abides by my will, lingered, momentarily, and (how courageously) turned toward the high mountain pass, but a fool of a thief skinned on his back, slumped without skin, without muscle, without organ. But a fool.