The silence, but you could here a high pitched ring within the chaos of you own mutated head. The trumpets bellowed but it was silent, it was and is impossible to say whether the sounds were analogous and thus ubiquitous to all and any assumable resonate and thus held enthalpy, equalibrium... Life.
Even en formulating the sentence here that never was, I must be in three places at once and so a Faustian deal. So I will write absent edit. I will not ingest an expression, as to thereby deceptively process as eyes, mind and expression for the voyeur that lies in wait.
The Cowels are not living and they seem and feel dead, yet they are all that exist. The panic of knowing them, watching and to also know that you are the prismatic projection of them. You feel, you know and you feel forever...however you are not truly living nor alive, you are an isolated expression or purge of class concentrated wave function, an excited feild, a flutter of a mimetic passing ray at absolute zero.
They, affixed always before their ever shape shifting and contorting structure disappear and reappear in an abstract haze of nothingness.
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