it's quiet. this domain we call choice. ripe with spoiled fruit and fresh carcasses.
time churns on its rusting axis. a hungry wolf long since out of breath.
the miles cut themselves into our skin. but we don't bleed anymore.
we're just the plastic skins that remain after the meat has been consumed.
we don't think much about the cold until it hits. we don't worry about those corners until the math insists.
the truth sours on its vine. still we feast on its rotted flesh.
compelled by hunger. persuaded by arrogance. we abandon our houses to face the fever of expectation.
there was no hunt. still everything is dead.