It Never Grows Less Tense: There is a Need for Some Reduction Sauce to Meld and Soften

Often I am dimed in horror of the thickness of our atmosphere. Nothing can soothe a caustic definition of the space, save window light hypothesizing rain itself sans breath. There is a presence hovering, demanding new assemblages to fill the theoried silver tray. The presence is injurious. The jury for the presence is predictive as a vial replete with salt dead blood. Why don't we chemistry apart awhile and monster from the depth of half-enthralled equations? Is it work to be afraid if no one's watching? Seizures of gallantry oppose this house. The weeds that grow preclude young blooms. What month is this supposed to be? The nursery expects us. Dream lives unclassified. Where are my documents are you their keeper? How is enemy status any kind of uplift when real work is there to do? Tomorrow is the posse of intolerable royalties one pays to have the life removed. If anyone could hear this, that one might be watching, too. Threads preside over the bare enamel. This is skin we're meaning. This is hazard pay. This is adoration gone to seed. What are you thinking when prevarication rums its way around the party room? Is it a worked room? Who is likely to have gone away with what yet unpronounced?

A surgeon's breath, repeated learning of things never learned, a class, a place to take and hold unfinished business