Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Little Miss Gloomtime.

With the coming of all that was deformed, mutations became a way of style. Like that lovely little fetus suspended within a jar of formaldehyde within your dreams, she will bring about all the rage across your face like a well played slap. Not that it matters too hard. You will succumb to her slowly searching fingers scratching at your inner circle of thoughts no matter how intense your convulsion. Her fingers like tentacles will find that clique of preconceived notions your parents placed delicately within your childhood and let fester into your personality. She'll probe it like it's never been probed before. Imagine a drunk truck driver soaring on crystalz. You'll be probed like that.

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