it tastes D E S P A I R. not so much its U S U A L fair, but where
comes sorrow, so too comes D E S P E R A T I O N, so too
comes A N G E R. its kind breeds in tumultuous turns of
emotion, those of the negative sort coming closer at hand than
might be with a sibling of joy, or hope. it S L I T H E R S ‘pon
grounds of cold steel, body half-built in the haste with which it
sought the source. spine-like form rising up, limbs haphazardly
thrown into place, inching forward, E A G E R, only to drop into
the ooze and disappear, eradicated by the will only to inch ever
C L O S E R. the H U N G E R drives it, an endless itch that it
could barely scratch, never enough R A G E in the world, in its
sloppily strung veins. eventually it collapses I N W A R D, forcing
bones and flesh to construct and rise up, to push at doors and turn
corners and sniff out the inner depths. it was so H U N G R Y, so
D E S P E R A T E for but the barest of tastes of the emotions roiling
before it. it S T A R E S, faceless, head twitching erratically and
endlessly ‘pon its neck, at the lizard-beast, curiosity blossoming
behind the haze of N E E D.