From the slippery exterior moss embalmed worn granite flagstones that twist like human spine around Bleke Tower I have slipped and free fallen, free willed into the deep purple, dark maroon and black satin shrouds of the treachery, pig effluence and stink of the mind. It's has become a medieval market, wet, heavy rain beats on my shoulders, a leather smoking jacket that has some strange memory eventually swells with the incessant stairods of more old memories which weigh me down, my knees drop to the ground to which I have no control and find myself kneeling in the slurry of farm like feces and dirt. Children's ghost thoughts are laying traps of hanging drawing and quartering, a ride on the cobbles would not be so painful, it would put my mind at rest or perhaps I could blot it all out with Hogarth in Gin Alley riding some faceless whore until she's splits open spilling out the love from my past. The Winter is in here, in her full resplendence, frostbiting every synapse but at present no sign or any sight of my personal hibernation where I can be safe, way from the raw biting spiky breathe that tears raw meat from my torso with every other syllable of what feels like truth. The dawn breaking feels safer as I dive into more illusion, no sleep for five days now, who needs speed, who needs the black Bats crawling between my jelly and cornea? I take a groining needle and draw up some equilibrium to seduce me until I can scramble up the spinal moss covered human spine again. For now I take an unholy bow and retreat into the unknown.
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