The seething essence still crystalline by the last-act shine, illusory in all men's eye. The last, the last...the last call.

In the blue-tunnel moss-green sprawling in straight syncopate, you will hear me. You will hear me in the someday of the growing generation of the growing of my mind. The yesterday sojourn of my parent's chimed heart and verb fluttering wakes.

The present has arrived. Fear all to those who do not understand the dark coming of the saints that will eat us all. The slow huddled fear they will carry to the midnight-faded mirror looking through deep wells to unseen gates.

Behold two. Those who look and those who are looked upon. I tell them apart by their holey, child wholes.