In the shade, in the cold, a grey pastry, a sallow dough. A giant lump of some y/&%/ substance.
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Wallowing in an over-sized glass jar. Quivering, gurgling. Reminding of muddy aspic. It looks so "/)&/"y%. It makes me feel so ?)#/&?=`*,
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Like a giant mite about to burst after gorging ichor. Taking *y&()?*y#"%& shapes. Stretching flabby limbs. Worming out of the jar
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towards the yellow light.
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Excreting a trail of milky pus through the surface rendering.
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Outgrowths form in no time, falling off. Tongues emerging from the orifices. Froth and drool drying up as all crumbles away. The pus
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smouldering and steaming off.
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Looking is not seeing is not understanding is not believing is not agreeing. It looks so *%#y()=. It swells, it grows, it expands. I
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think it will #y/$L@(?.
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Waiting is not longing is not hurting is not bleeding in a world trapped in a world trapped in a world. The dough's gurgle ceasing
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with the yellow rays scorching it. It's throwing a crust, which cracks and unpeels, reminding of flocks of mangy dogs running downhill.
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The two of us can't coexist.
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Look Further
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Atrox |