be prepared.
If the fine doll box belongs to you, it will become a memory. You will watch the folded box leave by hand, as the device placed by God into the ego vehicle heads out of the well. Blood-soaked cold air will activate the dream. Watch as the chemicals collide, releasing the bandages, and a fog of unknown origin.

The delicate ghost will bend into an inkwell. The old book of hellish despair will seek lips and legs.

Time becomes darkness. Behold the immeasurable sadness of the clone exhibition. Hell bans unplanned movement.

We are here. We belong in the old rotted mulch. We belong, crawling in the old box of broken bones.

If the sea of filth forces itself upon us, our escape opens a new valve, releasing the polluted stream.

And we travel. Split in half. Sobbing. Covered in Dirt. Covered in oil. Covered in filth. Covered in blood. Split. Skin the earhole. Confined in a small wooden space. Old wishes cave in. Raining down. Hiding in waves. Reaching the old box. Reaching old days.