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April 28, 2012
The explications, made salvific in the golden dust heaving off gusts of the masculine twisting on sinews of feminine embraces, whose nurturing pulse shadows convey what nothing may convey in the devouring by need of hunger for the heat of blood, the thickening by the sodden melody makers manifesting their ineluctable passion for decay, becomes not the food for life through the murk of indistinct blood, but as the cancerous manure suffocating the rising matters in the ovens we sire by right and accept by need, becoming our manner of manufactured ends, defying what death must really bring to life.