the sutures of your skull are the penmanship of malign forces; if you knew the width & height of each stroke, the language of creatures who use bone for ink, you could read the curses laid on your head. then you would believe in angels. your cranium is the glossary of your misfortune & i twice over can read it. peel your scalp off like a dustcover or i'll do it for you. fuck this angel of death bullshit. i'm the angel of forensics. i'm not even fucking done with you & your firstborn. graveyards are sandboxes. i follow the doctrine of bullets & sharp things in my secret heart. its the elf & the goblin in me. longsword & sidearm.