The sneeze of the Daemon

Today I woke up to the mystikal sines of the apocolypse. When I rubbed my groggy ass cheeks, the sound came to me--familiar, easy, like something I've known for such a long time that you begin to lose proper perspective--the marching ant, the long divided numbers, the touch of pink in the Irish glove--I don't know them anymore. BO BO BO BO BO BO BO BO BO BO OB OB OB OB OB OB OB OB OB OB BO BO BOB OBO OB BOB OB BOBB O B Y O B O B Y O B O YO BYOBYOB OBYOBYOBYOBYOBYOBYOBYOBB The feeling of the pinch growing number.

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