Etched through nonsensical, Pollockian calligraphy. Every murmur a crooked spasm resembling whinnies from broken horses. Writhing in gray daydreams burrowing through flaxen air. Muddling dishonest apologies into a vat of simmered roaches. Prepped and fractured statements that quiver as pedophiles in a shrieking swing's presence. A mandatory séance lived through kelleran throes like charitable goose bumps to a dying life ripe with bath salts and torn ligaments. Blistered boils shift with movement pink and lacking melanin. To breathe and only moan at the pus that falls across dermal webs. Hungered hope gurgles in a helium room with dead orchids. Grind every nail until it bleeds on the space between each star.