Agora, Rialto, Portobello Road: occidental accident of incidental commercialism. Whence shall Narcissus-X ponder pandering pattering of penguin peccadilloes? Pinochle palaces, posturing potentates, peregrinating pinnance of plutonic platitudes.
The market, the market, the market so fair: come sample, come barter, come peddle your wares! Sell art by the bushel, flair by the pound.
And brooding, Narcissus-X sees: plutonic provinces of illimitable plasticity. Air and water, earth and fire: Moro saw, yet did not comprehend. Perceived, yet did not understand. Not the dark, not the night, not the aching silence of penguins taking flight. Narcissus-X sees: abyssal, unfathomable, submerged beneath compressing capstones of cognizant comprehension; the furnace of dreams, forge of fantasy, crucible of imagery.
Or did Narcissus-X have too much pizza?