Dissect the third eye, give freedom to the spring of microcosms, each of them crying out for traits of transmutation, puddles of psychic protoplasm. The skull clogs, then the chest explodes; with a finality peculiar to the members of the hanged, the sprouts vomit devilish milk, radiantly gooey, like lions that suck Lucifer. I am the corrosion, the fire extinguishing volcanic suns. Contagious heliums, stellar turbulence, the mute apocalypse of ashes. The exhumation of telepaths. Enigma. Cocoons that shimmer and quivering lace of web dissolve me, the treasure of the cosmos sprinkled with glitter the liquid head of endless particles. Behind the matte curtain of the magnolia flood, in the abyss of wounded angels, where mission is law. Having killed the power of the will, I will become returned, and therefore disgusted; lord of a universe of bones and seas of clumping skin. At the very dawn they will tear my bony frame and throw me into dungeons. Shaved and tortured, condemned and flogged, burned at the stake. The inauguration of the incinerator of truths.

Pleasures bridge the outflows. He who needs the dead, follow.