In that looking for life. To be enough As a substance it twists. In the chest of pain. Pain as a clear force. Wild loin pain. Well if you look under the tables. You will see all the hungry dogs panting; sad eyes of sorrow; Fleas and scars from old rusty cans, with their saw teeth turn them into cracked skin on the marked ribs of ancient wolves.
Mirror Sub-Irrealism. Random intratextuality.