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.