A presence at a border draws / the arm of the light
scarlet or not, shelter or none, / centriole and silk filament,
This is the underlife, / the Lethe running straight through every choice.
With her polished face flashing in the fire / and shadows crawling through the cobwebs of fog,
I love reality so much I am anti-reality.
Would you spit like me.
The watchers all noticed it, the quiet / changing around them. / Someday they would refuse it.