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July 28, 2015
Everything smells like mildewed gism looking for an egg to suck, habitat of blue becomes scarlet, critiques of writing long lost to finding in a miasma of failure, are strewed over the blood spattered streets. Such is the smell of success in crematoriums, where the ghosts still cry out the forbidden songs without voices, such is the monumental tree rising above the sodden earth soaked with the Smashed Temple's fears. The ruddy face of the enemy is concealed by the blue tarp falling over the idea of the sun, and the mind behind it carries off its ritual without question.