The disease in the visceral pandemonium

It hasn't been long since I was under the third tree to the left of the big building where I met my travelling companion. She left me with a deep impression with her blackened eyes that called for deepened injustice. Walking among the rich smell of smog and palm trees that shook left and right with my steps, how could I know that these eyes would look at me for several millennia afterwards?

I hold on to the thought that even after the third time that we saw each other, she still seemed not to recognize the look I had when I looked at her. I discovered that there were very few things that could affect her like uniqueness. She was intrigued by me even though I would experiment on her and abuse her on every occasion that I had. I'm indecisive on whether she doesn't know, she doesn't care, she likes it or simply doesn't know the cause of the pain she gets.

Uncertainty collides with the rupture of self. The classical era gazes with deep fear and hatred toward the mouth of the dragon while modernity intrigues herself with the wing of the dragon, wondering how long it will be until each part of the sphincter will press itself around normalcy. Pandemonium is born in this soulless shaft of meat and blank eyes reliant on smell to hold the illusion of sight. The curved claw at the tip of the pyramid, made not of dead matter but of bone, pierces the brown waters (judged to be mud by some and excrements by the wiser).

In the end, a pleasant invisible smile creeps over her face as she lays her head on my back and we ride into the depths of the forest where the building nuggams hide in the darkness they call home. The road is long and tiring, but the clouds fly at the same speed as the wheels below us. The trees beckon us. My eyes bring cold fear onto the creatures that charm these lands. I wish they would attack, that they would rip her arms and leave the grounds wet with blood and despair.

Can't you smell the mint in those flowers? It has been said that when they become blue, cockroaches come to eat their nectar. But those are a long path away from us and the road does not call for deviation. When the third purple star shone down on the green air, we called the gas produced "melancholy" and we tore out the nuggams from their homes and threw them at the beasts that came to see us out. Our adventures were just starting and no interplanetary collision would stop our trip.

The lance that I used was first wetted in her blood. It attracts, then pierces and blood joins blood to make a nectar as powerful as the mint flowers. Then I bathe her in it and she crawls under the root of the startree, hiding from the ravenous beasts that I have planned for her, but there is no coming out as they rip out the clothes that cover her and undisguise the beauty that lays within.

There is a big rock covered in moss where I sit to watch. The plants caress her in consolation as she cries and buries herself with wet ground. And then we're out. She heals herself and prepares for all-out battle against the unavoidable suffering that is to come. She sits and rests. I smile and smell the delicious scent of illness in the visceral pandemonium all around us. The bears shall serve as boots for the ironclad warriors who lie to themselves with tough appearances but are as tender as the meat of the younglings they once were.

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