We all tend to steer our own courses into the dead sea.  Us to contemplate follow through
 these notions without repel is simply babble as. 
we're compelled as metal is to the earths.  Stagnant superstition locked when we're already perfect, 
made of love, a fetus hung in the complete stillness of air; whispering and dining on our own infiniteness.
Our galaxial  celesital nap is of infection.  Intest  e.  rose petals strewn all about in red blood brook sinews. pond, scum
creek crick! :3 ish.
  And our heart hath locked down.
lockherat heart.

... And I don't remember writing anything ever.  bull shit... ..