Hell prefers sleeping in those sunglasses. At least it no longer rains
there. Delirium as a matron, rolling on the floor of the mixolydian like a drunken animal. All is forgiven in the wandering through architectures that grow flesh.

A meeting in the emerald of negro spirituals. Mysteries circling below
icy water snatching a flaming trident from the hands of our mutual need. We watched elephants sleep on purple briars, failing to mend. Chaos wore shabby, ill-fitting clothes while waiting for the thrust into its petals.

Electricity wants to be a millionaire, too, with a grace that could
transport besotten drunkards to heavenly heights. Magenta and cold disdain converse with boiling metal. We are all forced to drink it at some point. Alchemy will continue to drag sentience to the brink of an aerial calm.

Now come here and let me daub your shrine with the colours of a swollen night.