let me see the hollow of the clavicle.
the barren humours of your bioalchemy.
divided by peristalsis, you dwell in silence,
organless, without heart or liver or kidney,
a thing of mantle & hyaline,
psuedocorporeal, with a 20% miss chance (10% with magic weapons).
choke on my dnd poem you old fucking fossil. literature is for those enslaved to oral tradition. to punctuation insisting on rhythem. to those without cryptography in their blood. this is the millenium that things change, that the hammer & tongs of science (the restriction enzymes, the tampering virus) change what it means to linger in meat. & i'm already one step ahead of the game.