My childhood home is build by little hand that grip the saw and hammers and soon to torn to shreds by the winds
The air is stagnant here and is smells of death… it is here
O the smell of seared fleshing the morning, oh how that squirrel was good, it bones were hard and so was the words that my father said to me as the tornado come down our street… we will all most certainly die, I have said this before, what I have always wanted to say. I could eat them all and drink their souls from the cup of god and then I will live forever when I am buried under the 2 tons of earth. Here the fruits will grow up from me and I will be in them and forever will I be eaten. I taste good. Why have I killed myself here, why now, why at all? It was for the better good, only evil could come of that one. And so t did. It spawned as a clone, the same but worse and better at the same time. Oh the glory, the roar of the people as I cast another in to the pit. They cheer, for if they did not they would receive the same fate. What a glorious fate, to die for what no one believes in.
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