Tagged and ID"d. You don"t have to seek it out. No mystery. Who could mistake these blocks all razed by miscreants eschewing any chance of laying low? That"s the mark, the modus. I sighed and did due diligence.
This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts in training.
'Thoughts laced with magma. Diluted lucidic expressions violently erupt, with acidic intentions-bleeding outside the lines, colouring the pages of the mind.'
(J. Klemm, 2013)
Streaks let you find yourself. What couldn"t be torn bends in echo to the blows. Debris let you plot yourself. I"d bet that path maps pentagrams for roads.
Woes let you find yourself. Shrieks ricochet throughout some metadata hell"s parsed charts. Some poor schlub surveyor melts their face, ark-style, with one glance.
This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts. You could only miss this corpse when distracted by those corpses there.
Diffuse the surprise, or catch it with purpose. Disruption"s the ride that bucks off its riders.
That"s not the thunder to the sides. Your wreck of an engine is alight, strewn through these crowded lanes. You shake until it"s ended: a work of art, wreckage like genius blown apart. I"m so in awe of it, yet still I can"t regret what I haven"t the nerves for. Egress on the blast. Godspeed you b******.
This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts in training.
'Thoughts laced with magma. Diluted lucidic expressions violently erupt, with acidic intentions-bleeding outside the lines, colouring the pages of the mind.'
(J. Klemm, 2013)
Streaks let you find yourself. What couldn"t be torn bends in echo to the blows. Debris let you plot yourself. I"d bet that path maps pentagrams for roads.
Woes let you find yourself. Shrieks ricochet throughout some metadata hell"s parsed charts. Some poor schlub surveyor melts their face, ark-style, with one glance.
This is the easy mode for the voyeurs and scouts. You could only miss this corpse when distracted by those corpses there.
Diffuse the surprise, or catch it with purpose. Disruption"s the ride that bucks off its riders.
That"s not the thunder to the sides. Your wreck of an engine is alight, strewn through these crowded lanes. You shake until it"s ended: a work of art, wreckage like genius blown apart. I"m so in awe of it, yet still I can"t regret what I haven"t the nerves for. Egress on the blast. Godspeed you b******.