SHELLS
Crack the afterlife and boil massive sin, because this cook spins nebulaic dust into Godsong and crafts the delicacy of galactic fervor into digestible yearning. Fill up on it, because nothing lasts, the searing nuclear core of suns measuring nothing more than seconds, molecules dissipating like ticks on an old wristwatch; the tocks lost like laundry socks. Yet it all feels heavier than worship, more daunting than judgement. For something so mighty and transient, this recipe for incessant defeat still manages to rise every time, the bread of the true lord chased down with the wine of hate. What a pairing, like hours to moon phases and sugars to death; the felt sky’s ripples into eternity dilute nothing. Space is not as cold as this concave heart that’s slowing each day to a forever still. May it be dined upon in a blink of an eye, prepared for no one and open to greedy consumption; an egg hardened with a soft shell and cracked by stuttering destinies.
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