April 18th, Year of Silence

Terrestrial things. Bushes and brambles. Heart things. Pushes and shambles. Sleeping as a potent medicinal dose that cannot cure, only mask. Muscles that never get used to the aching. My energy only defeats when called to combat, and is dormant at all other times. Hands can be used as undercover spies. No one notices them, unless they are being touched by eager fingers. Voodoo dolls are more flesh than fiber, though this is never obvious. The predictable has more flavor than anyone will give it credit for, though not a very good flavor.

I am happy, I think. Still, it feels like someone is chasing me. A past I have attempted to tie to the train tracks, perhaps. Still, it feels like some thing is targeting me. The Corpse speaks through necromancers, then rises, then dies his final death. The spiral will become a line, then a question mark. The Corpse decomposes. I build a nest in a funeral home. His coffin is empty. His coffin is full.

April 18th, Year of Silence

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