in the sense that it makes sense

as you stylishly swallow white mushrooms and watch the dead factories as you shyly lie on your death bed ::: you watch the string of time ::: as it transforms your veins. and as you try to find the road long ago lost in the mirror the death rides its silent horse. the sky churns as the god mispronounces your name. by some uncanny chance, you can finish your book.

::: the zone :::