Avox

Garbled tongues spite, relentless as Lovecraft's Elder gods stir. Their tentacles reach beyond the oort. The primal ethers churn. Distilled, fractionated, saturated. Its poison seeps through pores. Behind their visors the damn cackles. Unable to comprehend, trying to apprehend. Blitzkrieg snappers and bivalve coney stingers, once crushed, dead. But if one manages to eek out the thyrian from the murex, wealth awaits. Alas, I'm not like that. So I shall continue with the swishing of the muses to where their gentle limbs arch, no matter how awkward, as this is the purest form of art, to liberate the mind in a stream of monotonic clicks. A quick pause. Resume. Fin.