She smirks and edges forward. Fixed, dead through my eyes. My existence is irrelevant. Contingent on her whim. My flailing moods guided by the lunar tide. We are eighty percent water. Malleable minds and bodies shift as the goddess blesses us with moon beam eyes. I am not alone. I have spoken to them, my comrades. Specters like old friends, ruminate within mental purgatory. A forcible exile of the mind. Devouring memories. Space station settling upon the atmosphere. Glazed an unforgiving darkened hue. Downcast she peers. Shadowless and stoned. Abrasive and menacing. Her trajectory desperate like elapsing segments of life matter. Exhausting possibilities. Fitter. Pronounced rib cage piercing out. The tragedy is that she can’t eat. She feels nothing. Absolutely nothing. Nameless as one would falter in divulging a gesture of her majesty through human synthetic characters. Arms marked with despair and anguish. She corners her fixations and rallies the blades. Seduced by those subversive kisses of sharpness. Opening an unknown pleasure. Control. Mistaking the body’s system. This is warfare. Tingling as the coldness turns warm. The torment breathes a thousand fold. Shakes in the wind and answers my prayers consistent. Every deepness becomes my own. The reaches I can not attain in dreaming I jot down in fragments. Holocaust summer.