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When The Dream speaks blood, the night extrudes the corpses through the moist soil. Of the very sin that began the massacre, Her forgotten flesh permits once more the chaos that ensues Her death. The earth exudes the foul scent of dying. Hope and worship become meaningless. Reality fails to withhold the feeble stability it once possessed. Irrationality takes control. The living mind becomes dominant no more.
The only truth suitable for Her beautiful nightmare, forgotten behind the tongue. The eyes perceive the entrancing remains of reason, placed together with memories lost. Strange is this gap, as all is something. Even the sky is rusted.
It's so very easy to forget I have a face in this lifelong darkness.
And the darkness shines red.