It Doesn't Have To Make Sense.

In the morning on the tenth day of Elseveth the Devil Wandering made tea with Grief Expanding.


It was a dirty grey day, over the war-fields of Terrenteth, fifth world of the dominion of Empty Children. They sang a song called Repetition, shirking deadly duties to devise a demonic means of repeating the world.


That was what conservativism did to the universe. It made Congress with Grey Books who stood at the ceiling of the earth, in the blustery blowing winds of the endless moor overlooking a sea of broken records.




We were evicted from sensical things by the truth, who waved his badge and badgered and battered until we broke and ran back to the safe skirts of madness. I avowed, swearing on my convex spoon, that no matter the consequences I wouldn't confess myself to Darkest Glory. 'Lucifer Mighty' decried, his sword up high and his master downlowed.


'I am unmaking, with needle following and thread piercing! Done backwards backly gone and given to Deathly The Sinful Man. Good old Deathly. He scrawls in pits filled with shit; He wasn't so in love, but this is it.'


I have gone grossly, stepping goose-ly, on paths the sane man shant.