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From the Thorax

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HomeUncategorizedFrom the Thorax

Beneath the deacon of stone, deeper still, clawing. Claustrophobia screaming
from the thorax, raw bones. In this mahogany box, suffocating. Dripping
home-brew from the soul’s tap, grasping the dark’s paraphernalia.
Holding on to the table saw in my mind’s eternal symphony.
Beneath the deacon of stone… Claustrophobia.

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