like an anger filled tube of ritz crackers, Figaro descends upon the sockless inhabitants of Kilimanjaro, his heart filled with vengeance and fruitcake on his mind. oh, how the mighty have fallen. swing low, sweet chariot, low enough to decapitate victims with your cheese wheel spokes of gouda. shower molten death upon your enemies as they dance for rain.
morbid images refract from a tainted prismatic third eye fractured ghost light upon a retched cavern wall. from the bowels of the earth come the cries of a thousand tortured thoughts screaming for reason. my hands, they have nothing left for them to do but to record the visions of a reality warped by cleansing immolation.
I have seen the sun and I know what casts their shadows.
I don't know how to respond to that...