These words are not of the shade that the rap songs promise. Not the prophesied smiley face piercing through the touchscreen, offering happy hypoxemia for yet another turn of the century. These words do not trust a God whose only idea of empathy is making you fall for the stars (arguably they shine just for you).
These are the cosmic cadavers of thousand and one ginger kittens, slipping through a tear in saint Gogol's overcoat.
The bullets fired from Van Gogh's pistol as the heavens burst into flames.
The last sad swig of single malt moments before the Crown Prince perforates his cardiovascular tissues and alters the course of history.
The blurry drops of Beauty from a dripping brush as Klimt manifests an undying embrace.
These are the Maggots and the Messiahs...
burning bright and badass underneath a merciless South Asian summer star; making a sick world glow.
Handle them with care.