The Edge Of Peripheral Comments

Homesick from shellshock, as always, a suspension spontaneously supplying its own combustion through child-like dialecticism and a figure of reach indulges in prophecies of oblivion.
Nothing else is free, except the chemist who'll choose how the illusion of claustrophobia will grow.
Dread from a positive charge split into hindsight and immediate fortune, the bitter railways tracking memory as legacy idealise the invention of time by suppressing hands under fine-hairs clipping their own messages of growth, soaking lives in boredom, projecting spheres of endless realism into reason, the blade carving caricatures from bone.
Nothing is ever born, even thought is outdated by what we can see, beholding a death defined by what it believes what it was to be.
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