When all is said, these people cannot complain nor comply with anything so very much anymore. Their windows have been wiped 3rd-floor dysfunctional. Moments of utter anguish and angry-faced emotion shall cut itself against the restless weight of a looming evening-time… met by improper bombs being inescapably dropped atop of their nearest-both-deathly-dearest: these chosen, cherishable people who never meant no such harm anymore, only pushed to forcibly arm themselves at the bleeding belt-buckle with a nemesis’s sweet soft surrender: namely, a bulletproof bulletin of metallic sorts which will enter their brains at piercing pace.

“Face-first destroyed,”

Captain whispers a thing of lopsided beauty whilst he surrenders his harshest memories.

“at-a boy”.