Your yellow acid will be a bead around my neck. Your jaw will be a tiara for my archangel. Your used-up Ister will flow into my peels. My career will engulf your berries. My satyr will walk across your hands. My dried up tree will soak with gray shame. My identity will puff out with wisps. My power will go out synchronistically.
Analogy is not representation, and causality is not resemblance.