Larrarada is encrusted instead of me. A moment drips down my cheek, because red is the shackled wasp. Half of eternity shreds a tube for the robust man. New holes look nice, and smooth balls. Everywhere the crushed-up cries careen, but the meaning of it all escapes through a melted fist. Languid mortgages are the thrust of a wave that I do not own, a name that is not mine. My left eye does not look where my right eye looks. That’s why my bones began to crack, which is something I never told you about. We’re as close as we can be, given that I’m not close to anyone. Not right now, anyway, because there’s no time. A heap of oil angels vowel hanged lord grail.