Dry reaching from listing to you spit those words from your half-open mouth, listening to your scratchy larynx run itself against the hairs that secrete your throat, whispers of fortitude, simplicity of a man-made hell that whimpers from within the bastard that your birthed from the bowels of your own infertile sack of dismay, (faggot!) savages, words full of hate and remorse, sexual promiscuity questioned for no reason other than to drawn pain from others, a move only made by those of weak ilk ($) servitude, pulsating pathways of blood rushing to fulfilment, resonating those final moments without, within….
where the impossible seems three shorts steps to the left, and one giant leap into insanity…
