do not condemn the fallen.
we find one another through barbed digital channels, our forelocks jutting chaotic towards the nearest oasis. blame falls with grift upon its details. spattered across the map of angel feathers and blood. silver dust, coruscating into the sinuses of the presumed holy, might as well be depleted uranium. realign yourself as a revivalist, ‘cause the pit calls for forward philosophy. in the almanacs it’s named <RISK>.
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