Careless and carefree, fuck this reality. Life, dreams and nightmares, rushing into the black only to fold, constantly costly for readers to flip and scroll through blank pages of a journal never written in, posts with dog tags for the rampant digital disrespect of the transparent delusions that never make it to another's partition, eating away at every weary wary of many wheezing weights too heavy to drop anything and let go.  Nothing but footsteps spat teeth and languished notions brewed over coffee. Craving just the best ignorance, a shortcut to bliss, keep that craze and I'll stay stable, shock my mind awake, well... that'd be a mistake.  Crunched wooden chips breaking even easier, with all in all no matter unminded by the misguided,  crashing into the collected climactic spilt ink, by every heart willing to be in context, you were without and not trying to stay in. Clashing with the notion there was never a connection.  Nothing but footsteps spat teeth and...

 The strings of his vocal cords stretched thin from the blood bath that had ensued. Ripping off Tangent's vocoder from his technological suit made by the Darland chemical company, a subsidiary of StillLife that focused on the extenuation of living organisms. Offered access to Dev's immense archives detailing heavy implants designed by "The Phenom of Technology" still after many years of being KIA during the Suicidals' attempt at destroying their only focused enemy, Dev. The winged bat is dead. At the hands of his carefully placed mimic. His iris and pupil inverted to the outer brim of widened and stretched skin. Exemplifying the only difference other than a ripped-off jaw displaying where the device needs to reconnect what use to be. Raising it to his face, electrodes convulse the parts veins, and muscle tissue contorting the splayed mouth of the mimic till it reconnects to the new physiology of the angelic body, Rev. A figure approaches slowly ensuring each step ...

 The melting pots below, I have lived here a thousand years talking with the dead and known no end. The water compounding the silver nitrate, and consistent carbon used to further our understanding with the lives of inferno. A spectacle for the two to emerge as solid rust upon our skin, us as the slow statues of a long life waiting on our ambition to finally reach a destination, our still and chilled lives. Reacting with the chemical, we disperse, the thought from the body. Aligning the souls with a displacement of the released sojourn, amidst we slowly decay and rapidly regenerate, the low level to our sea vats boiled in GeForce to shockingly hold us to the ground. This state is about to have us all looking up. Our bodies cremated rock around curdled blood wrapping up the coil of the predisposed architecture of our analyzed coding embedded into the treatment of the vast and hidden section of the facility. The alarms blaring above us. A driven obstacle underneath the water, we pani...

 "Hey, we're the Hellion Hosts. Only one of us isn't high. Try to guess which one." The bassist speaks into the microphone with tenacity. Kicking out a fast riff. His guitar warped buzzing on the strings. Double picking with a metal cut coin. "Anything for distortion." Patches exclaim, delighted by dissonance. The bass drops, and the drummer hits the kick and slams out the bass tom, shaking. Pins laughs, "Well it's not the drummer." Even the organ player is jamming out an adrenalized tune. The bpm drops, "Did they just switch the time signature?" Patches shouts are barely heard over the amplifiers. Pins, looking at the guitar being treated cruelly exclaims, "It's the guitarist. It's the fucking guitarist."  "Oi, compensate. You'll drag the whole song down," says Ethix in the middle of the performance. Pins claps his hands, "I knew it, it's the guitarist. He's blitzed."  "Quit it, ...

 "Seer for your sight, singe for what you sought." says the residual half-life clinging to the outer haul of our over-embellished rotation out of the Lunar Light gravitational pull. "Did you happen to try that astronaut food?" says our lead engineer. We're bound to the trajectory for which we will fall and make a harsh impact. All for a planet to facilitate some such strike of a match. Each of us gets wristbands this time depicting us by numbers and bar codes. Fuck that sucks. "Hey!" says Three with a face flush devoid of nothing other than pale flooded skin. "I feel like I'm going to vomit." If this bitch throws up I'm going to stick him something reassuring. "What? Not in here!" He keeps pointing out the window, I finally look and there's something weird, something weird for sure. "Oi!" Raps the window. "Hey, you look like a freak. Are you coming with us? I'm sure you fry at the morning star." T...