"......," and shit.

A flaw in the limbic system/hatred gnarls the works/reality is located in the interstices of my joints, a parallel enclave/karmic backlash

smashes all the minute transparencies of my morality, in the Season of Glass.

Breath of time inside my skull, i've loved you only as memory's rote function.

please allow nothing between us but a jury: build it hungry and brutal and deprived.