Iterations have been made.
All display of fluctuable colours entice me, challenging me, amusing me.
YOU ARE NOT ENOUGH.
Not for this life, no.
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What's your angel doing here? It's not its place.
Heads detonated to milky fog, pink if seeing from the outside.
In an external way, this is why you are divided.
Poles entering orifices and you succumb to the enjoyment.
Subtle, satisfactory, complete.
It leaks. You don't care.
Trapped between layers of loom, I aspire for an internal growth, spiking, sipping salty sensations as warm as a judging lap.
I roll around pieces of scrapped bodies attaching myself with new silent dreams, oblivious to myself.
Ophelia is my name.
Oceans will tremble.
Mountains will perish.
Skies shall rot.
