Seal #7: Conclusion

Gone. Is he?
Soil works as a face, most times. Its ears, the artifacts that persuade passion to breed corrections inside the conceptual womb that is "we". Without fresh automations to support the pillars, the temple of absurdity will fall. Samson faced eagle messiahs, bald with the scars of stone liver and expectations, stoned from the scent of cement, pouring eulogy. Angels of semen, angels of tar, forming a circle around this filthy vessel, called a "body", cleansing all impurities by devouring the flesh- the flesh of all tigers. You are the bitter. You are the meek.You are the semen. You are the meat.

That's how our great civilization fell, from one day to the other- we asked from the sun to shine, from the moon to cry, from the serpent to throw away its skin, and we did so as if these actions were something beyond ordinary- commanding the natural to become one with the paperwork.Void of light, void of hope, void of the three nines in the highway,and i'm your vechicle tonight, and your key to invade inside the machine

Music to my ears. Music to the soil's ears. semen to my forehead.

Children in the soil.Raped from their father's fingers.

I asked the Hedgehog to remain with us. I failed. Now it's your generation that will take the blame. Good luck,

I'm just a voiceless actor now.