seiving the flour
i keep screaming but i can't get it out of my head. i can watch it till my retinas start to bleed. and then they'll keep watching, asking their questions, making their comments, wondering, knowing wot they know, pretending wot they don't know. it looks that mary didn't struggle, philip just stared limply at the flickering images. their vocal chords twisted in passionate embrace, knots ripping through the passages. i can hear them everynight, quietly fighting and singing their hurtful ballads. the madness beneath the perfect virturosity, and the seemingly blinded sanity in the spasms.
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