the void is just an inverted dream in which we're all engulfed doomed to the empty hours of eternity to the periphery of shutters and mildewed desires where idiot savants wander the wasteland in search of lost love amongst the ruined and what you call love is nothing but a duel of salivas between perfumed corpses who seek to accelerate their own destruction and display their wounds under the beams of a luminous canker you long for the insincerities of the flesh that mere furnace of guts with the gift of tears i love watching lovers profit from their own sicknesses exploiting their disequilibrium with violence and skill in the salon of blood and guts that boneyard of dreams with the extremities of passion and rapture, rupture into an abscess that absents the dismal abyss which follows delirium