...a hologram aching with adoration and a vague hope of recovering fifteen billion sweaty ballads from the colour of opium. one could blast off into theoretical nights, or freely choose to squander the new Eve on remixed whorls of metaphor. the scarab's initial relation to superior fingers, it was all a harbinger of the sweet, unresolved fifth that augmented gravity, the codes revealed by your bare shoulder minus the lattice of smiling numbers. I ran through the flickering conspiracy, baritone impulses splashing at my exposed knees and thighs. the logic of evisceration drank prophecies from the fluourescent green foliage, a satellite was given enough answers to question. on the cusp of a digitized sunrise with blank eyes and a frightening message from the automatic, I mourned what was ironic in you, the equations that drifted without purpose yet were capable of dividing the bluest sky into the syntax of my upturned palms.