Tuche & Automaton

Tuesday, January 23, 2007

Rate of the Echo

Rate of the Echo

that which ends. Easy and languid in this densest of nights. Beneath infinities. A storm of sadness, crosses buckling under the weight implicit in their architecture. Subcutaneous wisps laugh with medicinal glee, take another drag off of a refuge never seen again. Awash in acrostics, hieroglyphs swimming through your palms at a rate that can't be sung. An outline of terror gleaned from the mechanical myriad, yet clung to by the ambrosia of pure damnation.

You are a miracle making the long climb

towards nothing again.

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