Why Not a High Without the Scene?

Write "Kubla Khan" stark off opiods. Be the greatest writer to face the earth.  
 
"Could I revive within me  
her symphony and song...?"  
 
I hear no false voices.  
I have no shadow visions or dreams.  
Merely do I reach to the sun within the locket of the mind  
and warm myself underneath.  
 
The mortal sun means nothing.  
All day long-long it plugs its nose with ozone to not smell the incense of human flesh rising from the Levant.  
 
I have my own sun.  
It watches over the land of fairies with the power to build a new time  
or to turn to pixies and start the death of time. But that's never happened before in our Utopian mound.  
 
I am an elf.  
When love is found, Warlock Cronos is stripped again for passing over the most beautiful spring moments of all.  
Now, tick-tock can stand still for each of the kingdoms with love in their hearts.  
 
The fairies fly over the sky and their flying colors look like a rainbow in the blue.  
 
And the leprechauns follow the fairies to their gold.  
Humans debate the anals of Confucius.
 
But I can take carbon and make a diamond in my hand.  
Elves are so handy, the princess has a new jewel everyday.  
Of course, I am her true lover.  
 
And she will make me king  
because we both have a thing for long pointy ears,  
but also dance in the hills together to an album from Elvis Elfsy, the greatest elf around.  
 
This life is full of trips you don't have to drug to go on.  
You just have to live in a metaphoric reality to our own. You just have to use your imagination,  
and you can make any experience fantastical.  
 
In the fabric of a unicornious mind,  
you could do exactly what you are meant to do  
and smell the blossoming citric buds of a brand new choice.  
 
Riddle me this: can destiny and choice co-exist?  
 
Puff. Puff.  
"..."  
"Hey, I'm just smoking on oxygen!"  
"Well, beware of SHC."  
 
We cannot change our linear future of omniscience,  
but we make the future that omniscience perceives as our linear future.  
 
And da-dy-da.  
Won't you sit on this cloud with me?  
 
Everything can be a metaphor for everything else.  
We live in a psychedelic world already  
where truth is a lone space trip to the center of the sun.  
By the time you've got it, you've melted out of reality.  
 
Any questions?  
Write them on a star on your way out.  
I'll read them when it falls.