material, immaterial

Inertia is a stampede. A thick horn between my breasts, or a very heavy fellow who tips coins between my steps, who even dreams where I do. There's aces between might (noun) where only a lampshade could save you now, from start to finish fist roaring acres of sad sighs, frozen pitch-ina-dead-heat, I'll spy upon metaphors when I'm older. Now sleep in sheep's wool, wake next upon shames of a shady mother.

But inertia, when in neutral and barreling into a fake tit of a hill, and tugged by science o'er peak and thru valley, is a monumental act of nature to be reckoned with. You cannot stop, you cannot.