Maybe it feels like being born. I’m hanging, listless, with only the sound of my heart in my ears, beating with an arrythmia that offers little comfort in this complete absence. My eyes open and the void remains. Impenetrable darkness. I fancy I see my hands as I bring them in front of my face, … Read moreCarnivalis
Bow-hough’d, hein-shin’d, that incel Burns on Cheeto’d sheets lays wheezing, prostrate, red faced virgin, dour and din consumed in rabbish web debate. His room awash in resin figures, forbye a pillow shap’d of a maid, the tarnish’d pine o’ brittle shelves with unboxed Funko Pops display’d. His forays into Ceithir-Chan have wrought philos’phie, iron cast: … Read moreThat Incel, Burns