The
sun
blinks. The cells in this body never should have asked permission. The
foreign bot-god could make another you to love the corpse you leave actually
dead.
Things, special dead special things. God raising families of corpses night and day, rain or shine, until they negotiate mentally through oxygen and make a deal with the black angel.
Offer Satan my white horse and ask him, What is real? What made me and why? Buildings now ruins, people now dust.
Sign here and explode, angel. Leave the heir sterile living or dying. Promise to the black angel.
