"The madness of Christmas in July blanketed the warm roast that spawned humanity like a tidal pool of throbbing house beats. Our blistered hearts willed to those physically closest as we rode the sea's horses to our own personal Valhalla. Safe once again for the monsters who named us, empty paint cans now made blankets of stars and our insides stretched beyond the heresy that is our second skin - an emptiness that only birth could tame and only goats could understand.
Now deflowered, our beliefs lie motionless, shells of raw meat where, once, only Pagan children played and the rain ran in circles mimicking the brushstrokes found within the last, best madhouse."
~Mr.
