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Friday, November 04, 2005
Salvia divinorum
Slotted spoons and carameled cubes give way to lucid dreams of dead end highways and bicycle shoestrings. Leather-bound volumes of masochistic pleasures are my confidantes in this sickening haze of groggy discontent, but morning brings new light to soon forgotten turmoil. The eyelids are forced but continue to dip in slow succession despite the idle threats laid out by yours truley. The brain is numbed and the bellow grows louder; each wave sharper than the last. Soon our drums will be cut and bled. Earplugs are megaphonic microphones in disguise.
FLASH a flame. Deep breath. Hold. The countdown until downtime beings five seconds ago. Twenty five until we die, six hundred until rezrazzurrection. The placenta is lodged in our throats, but now is not the time for trivia. Seven seconds left. Death begins with a slight drumming on the skull, a spinal tap, and overabundant salivation. Absythesizers reverse the wave and we are left with sluggish heartbeats and dialated pupils. Breathing slows, glazzies roll, and we all fall down.
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