I am accessing shadows by dictation.
The time-stamped order of events is disputable.
Their razor skin has been bred for millennia.
We arrived late to the corner.
I have spoken, but I might be mistaken.
There at the back of my sight, there are ambiguous shapes.
They claim to be brethren.
I know not the moment of my demise.
They are sick priests and they lie.
Erased the ancient writings on the walls,
the words from Ephesus, Juan escribe,
in red cursive primitivity.
The bowling ball shaped arguments scratch fast
on the steep gravel driveway.
Amnesia. Cursed.
They removed the hen from behind the wire
and strangled it in front of the schoolchildren,
dreaming inside their bubbles, surface thoughts
and otherwise.
Your theaters are warm and they panic and they
perform Catholic apostasy of the curtain. One pogrom
and the camaraderie is stressed beyond smoothing.