Yes, the posterior

Yes, the posterior is an absolutely offensive idea or a thought about an uncertainty of being or sitting on a wooden chair in the shape of a deep breath or the sigh of a snoring person struggling to sleep before the break of dawn and it isn’t even evening yet eating puffed grains and bits of roasted potatoes and fish in black sauce when what is being written is more and all of only about things that eat of things that go inside mouths of writers who write a thousand words a day they think or otherwise with sheets of white paper white as a lie and ink black as the heart of someone in love deep like the gravy bowl and hollow like a roll of cinnamon wow how lame sound things when sellers sell vegetables and spinach with a pinch of beach sand or desert sand stolen from castles that float and fly with the clouds busy making a rain of chairs and frogs of a faraway land kissing frogs making princes out of gilled amphibian who develop quick lungs and lunge forward and then backward and over and over again till they sweat sweet dreams that drip droplets of sugar and honey forgetful bees of the lowest branches of a mango tree ripe with old age the fruits young tree rooting leafing shooting bulls-eye black and white circles of concentricity of right here and right now like a key-ring of June early third week secret inside gloves that are Pinocchio wears for socks on his nose of admirable length like an elephant and its fan-like ears that spread rumours about silver-screen actors of yesteryears