I've never used to write down glorified and symmetrical observations about the great loss of obstacles.My smoked viscera did it instead.
I may not fear the taste of this loss but I may struggle with the absinthe that they fed me with before I even recognized my own reflection.
You may look at me with an open pharynx while the canones of acrimony chase me from one scene to another with a great breeze of damping fluctuations.
Although all I see is a gazing reflector following my steps to the stairs that are taking every footprint away from me.
All I hear is the echo of an oblivious avenger with hebetate veins of
charismatic unreason.
All I feel is the paralyzed letter under my glotiss that may never build a paragraph in this sheltered novel of twisted twists.