Zephyr, o zephyr. The unaided ribs fail to be singular. All of us. Who is that? My ‘all’ drips across a shedding vault while necrotic dandelions shoot yellow pellets. Young little gem, you are round and bright. The exhaust splurges while tooth-bones scale up to infinity. Forces yield forms, and I don’t know why. Sincerity yields horse-dick like a marching corporation. Mash up the ice floes, that’s all I can do. Just mash them up a bit, with rackets. Let the blood gurgle up from below, with its warmth and its odor. I am cold, I am being rent limb from limb for the sake of the LAET that created me without realizing it. The tightness around my neck and shoulders is proof of my gender dysphoria, and my neo-reactionary thoughts belong to a sissy. My eyes are going grey, because my sap is dry and brittle. Someone ought to replace me, now that I’ve attained self-mastery.