He’s got good intention, save for his pragmatic loyalty to the foreign fading weather pool that lurks behind. He’s ready to crush some colonial path, temperament of sweet rosy wine.
“why can’t we all be friends?”, he shares as if sweet mucus blood stains are the corpse from which new beginnings happen. All the primates…and the elicit speak softly to one other deaf appearance a mortal body can’t save.
and this is quick. And this is to reprieve. Safe from extinguished fire, flame upon that holy body. For all those that cut their throats, because injury was a sweaty thing. Capital mirror management, borrowed template of small little crying babies.
this purges no man except for ignorant man. Will there be tolerance?