It's the thirst that asks the question of the void, self-absorbed and unapologetic
and everything is breaking down outside: a gas-powered table shaver, beheaded hippopotamus high chair, bubbling wheelbarrow growths, yawning skyscrapers of rust, m ...
and we listen to overplayed jingles on the bottom step of life, cramming preservatives into our nanoparts -- and carve out new souls in the cellar and fill these with nails, caulk, cardboard, fur.
The kneeling
The sniffling
The preening
The growling
It's the void that stumbles upon itself and decides it needs an audience, mirror upon mirror
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