It may be the time of year. I taste salts and hues of blue, sans green of decency.
I am reject; abject; deject. Cold floes break away to manifest intent d'progenitor.
I have bugs in my head, and they are grim, dull, and soulless. They beetle and scratch and etch their ways into the recesses of my brain; my affect is now flat, and I live to seek and destroy.
The bugs seethe and roil and manifest themselves as floes of grey matter; they are as slush, but they do not slosh. They crystallize, they march, they plan.
Bludgeoning their way down myelin paths, axon-soldiers are coming to find me, coming to needle me, display me in their boxes-- I am their puppet, and through me they wield great, torturous power.
We suck and salvage souls. We rape, we pillage, we decimate we decimate we decimate.
We are friends; I am Pawn; we are dogs, racing. Lungs itching. Hearts burgeoning, our prides are swelling, our eyes are swelling, we are over-floeing, nothing can stop us.
Nothing can stop us.
Where has the sunlight gone?
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