like a hydrogen fire in a taciturn vacuum, thus comes the return of this cripple of ransomed splendor. this resplendent and, in fact, imperfect holding pattern melancholic farce. quiet turpentine glances answer turbid advances in serpent time.
“or was it the other way `round?”
remind me who it was that fell for this again? remind who it was that took issue? I’m lost like a Templar in heathen lands. all holy thumbs, har har. guide me to the gauntlet, you cheeky fuckers. guide me aloft…
…for I languish anon in red-curtained crucibles.
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