a telegraph to the chamber of the wicked.

DISCLAIMER : THIS WAS WRITTEN IN 2014

If only.

If only there were a way to convict them. Their desolate patterns. Collectively. A way to keep their glaring eyes at bay.

Their structured void, so convincing. Scientific, even. Their theories proven; time and listless time again. These beasts without form, impossible to nail down.

Shadow cancers.

These empty cars crashes. Steel and rubber. Careening and crucified. Their desolate patterns.

Shadow snowflakes.

No one else can see them. They are governed by chaos. Egalitarian schisms. They can pillage and fuck and cower, and leave us none the wiser.

Just lay low and await their next transmission. We can't win the battle, nor the war.

We can allow the lamb its day with the lion.

Allow blood it's blanket.

Allow suffering