Yarns. Split it all spit it all split it all up into The Will and The Device theiritselves, spit it up. Never show the truth and hide it away between the bedsheets where the tenderhearted hatred whiles away so still, so benign, such tender grace in its embrace, in its opalescent-mother-of-pearl-lace-work-winding-interwreathing reticulations.
NEVER KNOW. Catalog the ninety-four names of the Devil and show me his true aspect sideways askance, Lucifer, bending upward rows of light. Love never, so I while away my time in the skin of a dog incarnate, cynical, raging like hard white teeth stained with yellow and newborn red slaking the succor of ripe meat slick with bloodflesh and real tasty incisors coated with it, clamping down on lost legs of opossums and raccoons, eat it all up and delight at newflesh coming into and collapsing inside the stomach like a dark star, singularity of crushing love ever becoming the leftover side dishes of the spirit's vital umbra, neverexisting life of enchanting newdeath circuit in homogeneous coils of misrepaired intestines, an illusory mobius strip-ouroboros of nutrients that when absorbed and assimilated become the exanimate matrix of... yes... the inert vector of the soul.
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