Ten p.m. sinkhole mission eyes to the sky only in whispers the water are one swollen divine you can’t cure this I’m far too weak too weak to last until the morning but could you say come with me now this could be what you want it to be say to me fifty three milligrams or millipedes the charity of sanity blessed thee of tragedy say to me fifty three milligrams I think what I meant to say is I think it might be my fault this pentecostal conflict comes serialized cover your eyes cover your lies how they sulk all so impressed a Saturn egress to fight off the knife as it walks up my neck a figment in mid projection on faceless reflections only in whispers the waters are one swollen divine you can’t see this I’m shuddering silicon chip in my head can’t contact the base of my skull to know my body is dead up my neck.