I’m each cold second of thought, the landscape abandoned by the bleeding birds. In the broken blades I see the faces of the old ones. I hear their infuriating tones. Everything has eight vertexes, even illness. Everything has eight vertexes, they say.

I saw myself rotting kissing the nameless seal of misery.

Flesh is a chain of screams, the soil where flies engender death. Because I’m illness, chaos kneeling down in the corners, thy endless experience of emptiness, the origin of All.

I’m the illness, the body of emptiness.

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