March, August first.
If by chance, by tomorrow night.
I thought, now all that is left.
To the death.
Rendered in shredder.
There are no souls on the black side.
Like the bat, face your fears.
No matter, I will go.
Drag my own chain.
Rubble, run away to zero.
The table and the plant, welcomes.
From the ground, the old man says.
Tourbillion, the air disperse.
I was never there, my life never existed.
The forever melancholy.
To destroy “Babylon.”
Grace of death; resurrect.
Welcome to the funk.