Camera-clock

Horror slinky stolen flesh stamped with style - stencilled… His howls haunt the sky so pink and sedated… We sit in the fountain gardens: the blood’s greyscale and faded

I wake up with a body open to a deal - I once had these giant chest pains like white hot steel- It’s half of what they feel… His putty expression {does he see these reels?!} Like the mirror speaks - can the camera bleed? We’re immediately caricatured and butchered by section… Counting faster to the dome bell that recirculates our senses…

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