Languid obsessions, tweaking in the petri dish. The observer cannot mask the object through the lens of dirty spectacles. Infernal dismay of outcomes calculated, the alchemist bleeds silver and gold. Intrepid discourse to hone the biology of the spirit incarnate, to dissect its meaning, under the cold blade of objectification. Dissociation from any feeling, the experience is soluble for the proof of existence. The smell of formaldehyde drowns out the senses, the scalpel revealing the soft tissue, incising to the bone. The heart does not beat without its rhythm, the investigator pulls back the sheets, as the ghost flees the scene, leaving no trace of existence to track its journey.
– Josh Fleming