tri-faced, the watcher follows his empty statuary patterns, long ago the whole thing broken down, and yet the damn thing continues to run. Do you think you know his mind? The scanlines of your Time's traversal are but motes of empty vapid things on the mind of the endless. And so you paint, the textured brushstrokes somehow becoming skin, the skin becoming you, the you becoming and becoming: gone and gone. So you spill your onanist painting like frauds little slut and? Does that make it bad? Like flowers we wilt but like weeds I for one refuse to let go of the rutting earth, my trashy plastic skirt a fucking riot in your glimmering eyes of trash and all the things we haven't yet forgotten