Arterial rivers carving a mountain of flesh, the peak, a jar of hollowing winds and the underview effect. What vantage does vision afford us if sky is a cavern of depth, and desert surrounds, seized by a drowning gush of shrieking insects? Wretch, writhe, the amniotic tear bore a vision of flies. Wretch, writhe, in ever shortening circles life survives, tightening spirals of order, life survives. A swarm of cells, fractal splinters gouged from a mass of adjacent shells, order, harmonic lunacy surfaces out from the swell of life, rebuilding reforming, life, procession to the final dark. The truth is hell is real and it's frozen, still and private; a neutral abscess leaking from the space behind the eyelids. Indifferent glow of unbroken snow feeds the crawl of a glacial torrent, a gentle maddening press that forges a strangled root of torment. Even the path to self destruction can light the way back home, the vein that winds through woods so dark and deep can lead to Rome. In the end we all chose one, love or fear, the choice that forms us all. They are the words we write on the same wall. Progression, unending arc. Procession to the final dark.
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