FITV #2, Pg. 19
Jun 22, 20261 min read
rip... Drip... Drip... Through which path doth flow the ichor eternal? That of witting ilk, or of restless slumber, with which its roads meet in a dance most macabre? With what measure does one begin and it's mirror end? That which bleeds it whom has a parasitic ravenousness guiding it's hand is no less a parasite in it's crowded cadaver. Drip... Drip... Drip...
Did you enjoy this article?
Recommend it — Standard Reader surfaces well-loved writing to more readers across the network.