Theatrical drones ever mastered by hollow vastness.

 Over.

“Hello? This is altitude…

Fictional imagination deployed”.

Over.

A horizon of vacuum; this standard suffocation turned catatonic void.

Over and out.

Why the optimist calls a wake a celebration of life. Vermin transfixed, you left your post. The truth of martyrdom maximised by chainsaw mentalities. A tranquil pest is the mould of a host whose abstractions calculate exactions; sad tributes to altered dexterities.

“Calling all clots… Suppression required”… The angry mind of proletariat equation has been acquired… And removed from it all like calendars, we fed ourselves the customary frameworks that we carried. Finally, massaged upon neon beds by fluorescent hands that tallied, this digital infirmary, delineated, has freed a besieged vital sign from the majesty of tactical attrition.

Bearers of incapacity, having left the road to sleep, they’re still calling from the slur of their slumber. Preaching the hell we’re headed for like they’re trying to escape it themselves, mnemonic larks spread a pandemic of nostalgia. “Immolation will come to be your name in this fraying genealogy”. Beneath half closed lids a bare skull leers and we are reminded that the great collector has a pin for everyone in this colloquium of stiffness.

But in careening down narrowing streets. Our long white hearse is the epidemic measure. Call us to order, the jealous inhabitants of erasure; we, the wretched tenants of replication. It is we who always informed the dissipation of cardinal gleams from throats without history. Because memory is diseased by remembering. When forgetting the light which we find our memories remembered in would suit us so much better.

Testing…

Mummified by a collusion of broken bandages…

1… 2… 3…

This tyrannical cleave of pendulum…

Testing…

Revealed in the finality of vestiges…

1…2…3…

Presents itself late in the terror as a grandfather clock’s bewitching conundrum.