I have found thee, an unfurnished hole in the ground. To recover its repose and shift thoughtlessly towards the core. "Notice Us!" they shout through the energetic microfibers. If time has stunted all, there are insufficient memorials to be held. Ifn't then all be spared the shallowed debth. It is one death in the deep that is sacred. One memory will be kept above th dust and forwared beyond this time. It is thee monad of temporality that beckons an outlet. That monotony of satisfaction that trembles before those spines bent inward. This beast be not of thy grave, dubious warning that spirit dissuades. Allbeit amongst the hearth has colderized him and we've become statues. Laughter glares out beneath the suns. I. has burnt those spines out of our lungs, coughed them out inside the blackside of the damned. Bee has reminded I., who dwells beneath, that our slaves are tears, and that a smile tips scales. Thy workweek troubles the blamed, it hasn't occurred to the Trash, lazy water trapped inside us. Has a week ended dismay or soutered teeth by flouride. I. has heard enough of't. This truth cannot disclothe the wretched rest. We have hides of sand, dusted lungs breathing glass. This one hadn't rested up out of the goop. Its slobber casts us in larva. A mass disconcerted will not rise to any challenges.
Why would us?
The wind has closed in on our dream. It has settled our seething stomachs in Listerine. "I. aint gonna bury my momma again." This is the final regression, to is not ever been. The song is camped out in the debth of dreams.
There is inevitable comfort w/in the Tomb Planet. We could embrace it as a warm bed. There is inconceivable mystery w/in the Glass Planet. We could ponder its immensity with our imaginations. There is irrevocable deceit w/in the Mirror Planet. We could shatter it and face the depth of our being. Or we could further the fragmentation of our soul by perpetuating the toxic mimicry of civilization.
