Providence. Alas, patience whispers under the door, footsteps come closer only to fade away. The master has forsaken any truth. Held down at the bottom, the jawline protrudes, gnashing at flies, stuck upon the stench of putrid flesh. Rolled up tight and fetal, trying to claw back in through the womb. The light of the moon burns the eyes, death is welcomed if only to stem the pain, as immortality floods in through the punctured vein.
– Josh Fleming