The finale is looming, with nails pulling at the binds of my bind. Slits and fits with holes of many and here I thought I had plenty. My internal carbons bursting at the surface, one less piece of solid I have. Will I survive before there is nothing less a moot point and disgrace for you to butter your bread?
I struggle under his grace as I self-digest in order to have order, creating my ration through the irrational pieces. You bite, they chew and I swallow; meager ducats are pulled and sold from the hallow. Here are my condiments to place in the visceral stead, there is demise and disorder to follow ahead.
Patchwork of tomorrow, I needlepoint the fractions of folly, within myself I feel quite jolly. With nothing left but the grated mess, I allocate the time and precision to the fix. Death will find me as it finds you, and when it does there will not be two. The cheese stands alone.
Happy New Years!
