Amid all that blood of the dying sun, the verde was still alive.
In the dark, I seem to stretch. Without a body to witness, I grow and grow with my pleasure. I feel like a constellation, a concept hung on a scattering of stars.
The past stands in the path of the future, knowing it will be crushed.
The summer kings are gods, and we are finally, in the end, just men.
Gods are what people worship. Men are what die.
So I take my lover, my king, and I put him in a pedestal and I cut him down. A man, like the ones who ruined the world.
