antler pieces and bone fragments gathered from vomit showers for use in augury. what is coming is what is here and it isn't so good. we used to say something else, some other words. now we just talk in insignia earned and covered up like what never gets looked for in a hillside collapse, anoxic, preserved unmoving for tens of thousands of years, a toolkit, medicinal moss, partially carved animals out of those animals. a hangover that lasts 100000x longer than the cause until the cause is rendered extinct, and what can be rendered from that extinction has itself gone extinct.
waking up less and less every day with more and more holes until the holes are the subject of every sentence, what sentences can be formed with what words are left to use. there is a vague recall of there being more words than this once, their general shape and movement, what patterns they could make, but not their names because to recall their names would recall them to life or would require a better grade of necromancy than is readily available in the discarded necklace-bags of the most immediately identifiable ex-practitioners. this isn't that, whatever this is. to name the dead as dead or to acknowledge their names as forgotten even if they themselves, the fact of their deaths, is not.
as if to ponder meant when it rained the ground absorbed so much that it pooled on the surface such that it couldn't evaporate and things came to live in there and because.
when does an aftermath become the thing itself? that queston sounds dumb even as it is written but doesn't want to be unwritten so let slide, burying whatever unseen under
dust inhalation/chromosomal injuries
(Hungry For Stink is the best L7 album forever and ever <3 nathaxnne)