You Are Who You Choose To Be.

With A Sudden Sharp Hot Stink Of Fox, It Enters The Dark Hole Of The Head. The Window Is Starless Still; The Clock Ticks, The Page Is Printed.

He Was His Own Leftover, The Spat-out Scrag. He Was What His Brain Could Make Nothing Of.

What Happened Casually Remains -

The Deeps Are Cold: In That Darkness Camaraderie Does Not Hold: Nothing Touches But, Clutching, Devours.

Do As You Like With Me. I'm Your Parcel. I Have Only Our Address On Me. Open Me, Or Readdress Me.