There’s a feeling inside me like Alien’s chest burst that is constipated. Maybe it’s a refute of resistance. More so probably good in a suppressive state. Like, I can’t just leap my innards out at you. But if I could. And if I could. It wouldn’t be some toothed stomach — no. This would be real. It’d be finding me in some parked car, having taken the day off work driving to the office, only not quite making it all the way. From my inside-out, acid just leaking throughout the driver’s seat. A vile stench that’s nothing like the trash in [any city ever; just worse]. Pulling a sick-card and coming through like the most psychologically tweak in physical hacking that melts your brain, through all respiratory and guttural systems, straight through that tummy. Bile so thick it’s made a nickel-sized hole in the metal floor.
PFS is on 蒸発音. “664,435” will give ‘em something to talk about the next day.
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