The fangs are filing out for you. They've stapled down your knees and hands. You can no longer stand to look into the faceless teeth laughing at you. A scythist's eye can see thru skin and slice. They've won. You swallowed dry and hard. Your chest caves in, falls apart and showers splinters down. Cold cleats are treading on you. A scathist's arms can reach thru flame and fire. The opening strains. Closing knives have honed in. They've won. They broke into your face. Your mouth is speechless, in decay. The grinding will not cease. Drill screams are deafening you.
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