[Etherwave]

Your internal whispers, locked within the core of your system, decide whether I'm a permanent fixture, or a drifter.


If you listen, you can hear that the echoes never get to your heart. Lost in the pulse of your wrist. Then missing. What kind of impulse is this? A sick tradition, without melodious rhythm? Or all of your own volition does your verbal position afflict felonious assault on my deepest parts? Disregard my erroneous vision, but in times of friction, you tend to dig past my crimson, until our coalition is out of commission, just a twisted eternal condition with a recycled victim. But your no victor if your victim becomes vicious, until your malice isn't quite a malicious.