. . . Tincture my night, slow picture; brain deeper! Broadcast more in my monstrous, beauteous body, slackening arms white. + ...Loss of the fragments depictioning: Synthetics people silent, breathing, bad those gaunt reproductive systems... Screaming in the space, laughing his madness: Is my mind a stagnant, far-born dream reflecting off in memories? *** Simulations? Love short of code. Poems: our labor for little. || ego-skeleton aureolin