The Holiest White Spots Continue To Congeal

acres burnt velocity, a meteoric carnality cast from the second floor's experiment. flinches machine static. intersticed in a cage, cloudy thighs lost in Catholic shock. electric faces, carbonization names that cling to the shellac of hearts. hair typography, kneeling head prisoners, an ounce brings awareness penetrating disembodied flesh. shut-up means the second whoosh in eczema, a cloak's alcoholic winter spent in wild, barren throats crammed into the race to calculus. a highway scene that licks the rising price of conspiracy and bites frozen panels, glands hidden by the monolithic factory of voices piercing the future's dread-locked army of police.