Windows Are The Drive-Thru To The Souls

The city smiles bathed in its own precious light. Beyond the agency, rock outposts eclipsed, we can watch the clumsy machinations of popular addiction. Wholesales! We've gone public with our candidate. His shoulders are heavy pockets full of shining brand new badges. A new face on the same old nest of blood sucking, long distance relative friends. Aspiring henchmen shaking hands with a notoriously fake smile and new lunchbox brimming with fake smiles all wrapped up for the starving masses. A security safety system blown apart by mile high ectoplasmic pyramid schism. "Smile upon your brothers..." Sympathetic fallout precautions personal emergencies written out. Crowned captain by kangaroo courts, we leapt into the winds guiding hands. Shaking fists at the falling sky screaming for change. The drones drifted apart in our wake. Their eyes settling with glass window dust, they shook the change in their pockets and became the display. Inside the gap still we could make out our own paths. My demons laughed and pointed and glowing bulbs lining the ways. ancestors questions replacement motor-oil earplug entrance supersonic drumbeat archipelago stamp well done, you're on my mind, and now... "Please open your mouth, present your precious eggs, prepare for the first rinse of static interference." ...the professor will begin the operation. Smiling over a ceiling fan or looking for a vein you're waiting on the man stuck out in the rain. Bombs with interlocking arms stand together through the long night. Unity in collective kamikaze circuitry means no one is left behind. One soldier reached into the waste reclamation simulation pool to rescue a handfull of worms from another world. The campaign trail was broken down into a glorious assortment of mandatory sentences. The borders made unsuprisingly malleable thresholds for counter intelligence endeavours, and with the gnomes on our side we had subterranean access in a matter of hours. Alarm agents crawled back, their tongues hacked off, and pleaded for readmission to the door. The guard stared vacantly at the army of casualties still dancing in the dark. Sand castles wept... The seventh time we left for the deserted, frozen, wastes just north of the western front, i had the good sense to request an armed escort. The boy arrived half an hour late, cheap standard issue machete strapped to his back, and my colleagues quickly told him that he couldnt be a day younger than nineteen. Line up for the doorway escape or forever remain consigned to transgression behind the bike shed. The toll booth keeps everybodies quality stable, just and equitable. Of course we cant take responsibility for everyone of course...