Substance, reemerging, incalculable recognance, undeniable in the light of darkness, a soothsayer’s hovel in midtown, beneath the trains, the forest of cinder for the nonchalant encounters that resuscitate my countless near misses with fate. Heal the wounds with quicksilver to my veins. The last is but my first, the shivering of regress annihilates my enemy, the dusk. For there is no vision in sight, only in the pounding, clanging hustle that satiates my conscious nights, and destroys the day’s innocuous foreboding of desolation in that hour of my dismay. – Sinz
