ROTSLIP!


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for every jailbird’s peccancy ordains a morose, even the sparsest ache could kill; kiss that blot, dig that plot, slip that rot! (“rip these stitchesㅡbleed, sweetheart.” whimpered he, as his moth-eaten veins were still cut.) @ebbedbot. @mussedbot.

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ㅤㅤ
we sin. we are the sin itself.
(“for every filthy form of us were to rot,” it was said with a gravely certitude. or was it not?)
there’ll only be a single absolute—no matter where do you waste your foul: you are a product of what maggots would feed on.

@ROTSLIP. sanctuary. or a mortuary? (not a choice you should decide, people say.) a complex stagnancy you won’t find in any other burial yard—it will seek you before you do. as per this death note reaches you, it ordains for your presence. (“you simply qualify; wordsmiths, profile-needs, namefinders specialists. behold!” it sounded like words just scram from their mouths.) gouge out your own tomb? @ebbedbot.

ㅤㅤ


soon … piercing our burial plots in progress.

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