If the truth is inside,
And the form is outside,
What is the truth of sleep?
Stirred...the fur-toothed graves of young boys...a thousand slain in the time it would take to do love with a pretty girl or think of a new God.
Out of slavery, freedom -yes, & roses from the pig's behind.
Destiny is the music of the improbable. Were it otherwise, almost anyone could exist.