...of myriad small things/this time through the mirage of you (when hearsay becomes capable of dissipating blistered seconds rising from the road in blind idiot wisps of naivete) quickened to savour/past the rhetoric of The West and nihilism's corrosive ruins/to bomb loaded cadavers embedded in the center that justifed falling from the half-way mark of grace to drink the boredom of gods forging the distance of revision/created to still blasphemy and a fair amount of pain curling its speckled wings to shield their precious whores from the net of tomorrow raining whys from the depths of space
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