The frozen voice hangs on the door. A crowd waits. Midnight explosions will start soon to herald a benevolent sky- for squatters.
In rise and fall of an empire I won't put any label to generation drift. The changing geography will take care of the ashes. A ragpicker will tell the story.
Ambulatory moon had become economical, blanching the stained dreams only like our land's wounds. The sea of hate lies naked before us to sweep the carcasses. I know not how to become omnivorous.
