one is supposed to leave something behind. like an offering of sorts. when they flee the dread. or, perhaps a token; who the fuck knows, since both are semantic versions of extortion?
the tempo slows, and the demons become confused.
my friend takes his weapon everywhere, expecting a fray. but, the shield-wall is raised and his only battle remains with mediocrity. a shrug melee forthcoming. the last of such in this fiefdom.
the fossils are suddenly awake, take shelter.
it's easy to declare your allegiances, when the leather straps are placed just so. in the appropriate places. firmly stretched around the throat, where the vitriol gathers in rock-hard clusters.
the drugs pave the way, and we follow.
think about the last place you ever wanted to be, and go somewhere far far away from there. consider it zero point and deject the idea of regret. accept that it's always going to be a matter of shaky physics.
there's a black hole near the sun, just waiting.
silence is danger, and velocity equals hidden culpability. somewhere close a trumpet blares. this graft put upon reality is troublesome, and the impact of the gauntlet remains free of a culprit.
don't be surprised when your jailer turns out to be the mirror.
some houses breathe foul and saccharine, hiding quagmires in the lintels. a viable psychic sludge slicking the walls. it collects, like some diabolical dust in the fucking carpet. every floor is full of its own version of hell.
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