Beauty is apocalypse.  To lose all identity and feel the parts sucked through you like a cosmic-blowing liquid-honey-fuck. Perplexion is the goop that bardic wonderment is made of. I want to be so enchanted by Art that I lose my mind. All linear constructs dissolve. It is the penultimate orgasm and yet it has no end. It is eternal unveiling. Apokolipsis ad infinitum.