the latch

frantically switch on your furthest wrist and enflame the torch. Now! make the sacrafice and contemplate oil, the next one. the next sacrafice, may be yourself.

Judgement led by conniving artists of pointy arrows and jackets made of gold. bring on the resemblance as it all gets a bit old. the dread of the last

Time to pucker up and play witches, the moment for kissing is at hand. gruesome legs and straggly hair, foreboding measurements, Damn Sure! Your eyes, baby, are closed.

If you could behold the wealth of farms, humans will rise and step on clouds. the frozen waters forget that life seeps through.thats how little life there is. I call it a danger to the centipede.

the leakage continues to grow, out of hand, out of mind, but in peripheral sight. Damage to the gold retinas ensues with painful stabs in the chest. no one understands what it seemingly says

Wisp of hair, Blue arms and all the jokes in the world prepared and unleashed like hell dogs on the ears of the dead, weak ears. await the results, avant garde. the healing power of laughter. forgetfullness in strange.