What wickedness wraps these bones like vines through branches? I am wrap tied by this badness born of culture and career nursed by horns and habit. I am raptured by this madness my soul obliterated with this singular focus. The locus is lost my mind’s eye sundered and joined again and used by another. Where is my mother’s hand? To pull at this evil and restore me to me. I must shed this sin this thing called thought and free my body to be.
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