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Each parcelled pittance, blood relentless building walls of mirth transition.
Enter trancension, stretch-marked soul, burnt fingertips, botched female lips and a sexless mold. Time didn't know what to do with us, it was through with us, left the us the audience of edifice, the razed empire of our simple youth sift into translucent truth like a forced confessional with our legs.
Each spine entwined a smile sighed through a child's eyes on the day it dies in the hands of overbearing adoration, infatuation, the feral saturation and just sanitation. If you feel it right it staves off the internal bleeding. Nocturnal feeding.
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