Prose bit about a washing machine, probably

Whilst in the midst of spinning we are to find a new clarity, a momentary lapse in the blur where all objects in spite of their individual, infernal movement congeal and coalesce into a greater shifting living being that pulsates and writhes to beats unfathomably fast and unrelenting revolutions. Concepts and general entities are sucked into and enveloped by the great warping carousel that dances and wobbles and regains itself shortly only to risk dividing and splitting in the next exact second. To be ensconced is to then perpetuate, initially innocent, imbued with spirit and thrust, becoming fuel for the great whirring fire with hot bloody hands pushing the mass on ever faster.

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