You sweat in the boiler room of the Panopticon, cramped concrete basement roofed with a great fisheye lens, a crystal cornea inflecting itchy movements to the batties high above.
You huddle in a clutch of knees and hands, milking salt on the slick grill of metallic floor. You miss your life, hunting in the woods about the Technium, nestling with a favoured wench on folds of ermine, in the rose light from dying oak combustions.
Woe Gideon, that blessed fools betrayal. Damned for the lust of gelded clockwork houris, the butter soft fingers of spayed Tope fish! Felch be his name forever.
You void your bladder, and the sticky fetid pant of man piss sets you gag twitch on the ground like salty worm. The food hatch snaps rust jaw above your head, and stumble to a stand, brave fingers quirking through the bladed dark. In quick, withdraw! Portculis drop, safe gel hunks curdled in your razored grip.
Throb of leaky cuts and mouth bare crumbed with questionable meats. Collapse you once l’amore, in hingey embryo surrender, muck mouthed tongue prod harsh at rotting tooths. They creak to laugh.