In the shade, in the cold, a grey pastry, a sallow
dough. A giant lump of some ý/&%/ substance.
Wallowing in an over-sized glass jar. Quivering,
gurgling. Reminding of muddy aspic. It looks so
"/)&/"ý%. It makes me feel so ?)#/&?=`*,
Like a giant mite about to burst after gorging
ichor. Taking *ý&()?*ý#"%& shapes. Stretching
flabby limbs. Worming out of the jar towards the
yellow light. Excreting a trail of milky pus
through the surface rendering. Outgrowths form in
no time, falling off. Tongues emerging from the
orifices. Froth and drool drying up as all
Letras de canciones similares en http://es.mp3lyrics.com/qE4crumbles away. The pus smouldering and steaming
off. Looking is not seeing is not understanding is
not believing is not agreeing. It looks so
*%#ý()=. It swells, it grows, it expands. I think
it will #ý/$L@(?. Waiting is not longing is not
hurting is not bleeding in a world trapped in a
world trapped in a world. The dough's gurgle
ceasing with the yellow rays scorching it. It's
throwing a crust, which cracks and unpeels,
reminding of flocks of mangy dogs running
downhill. The two of us can't coexist.