there was a terrible split chord that shattered it all. just after the blackout. a minor screech, followed directly by a major scoff. we do not live to provide the template of a reverse plot. and, even less can be expected of the cracks in the clouds. slit that fucking moon like there was a dotted line right down the center, then pretend you were designed askew. smile jagged and decline crooked. let the gaping grave be your grin, just to prove a point. someone stuck an acorn in the gears & we lost a million fathoms we'll never get back. jittery is not the answer, but it'll do in a pinch. there's a treacherous debris field surrounding the better judgement of humanity. so thwart your foul orbit. despite the hyperbole of chance, you can choose your own impact. slick your hands with distortion oil, while we sift through the pieces. perhaps be a magnet for the miasma. perhaps a plague of vernacular? last phantom of desperate climes and faulty incense; the hiss of the more savvy gears beneath the objections. vault the theorem of the enemy horde and shed the scales. mix the quickness of the sideways smirk with the arrogance of the shieldwall. dread the seriousness that this farce hides. suspect the obfuscation. the lords convalesce, despite decrepitude of the system. the fringe will wait while the avatar of the major commodity distinguishes the spoil from the need.
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