The fog gathers and the apocalypse grows near. Let us give in to the power of the mist which thickens quick about our quivering bodies. Let the cold shrill air hiss by on the wings of a fierce wind. Shivering. Blinking. Thinking about the sinking sensation striking your gut. Deeper and deeper down and down within and without our selves, coming finally to the very depths of being. And here we look up and see only the density of our immersion, and cry, and choke, but hope pulls us up again as we realize, at long last, the only way out, is up.
Smoke weed again. see if you can hear the resonance of yourself listening to the Fog as it entangles you into a condensed memory. This is actually quite cozy. Box us in instead, we tell the packagers. something like six symmetrical sides never felt so tight.
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