every prick of blood marks the breaking of a freshly dug grave unto the cements of nowhere.
as the skin starts to unfold, the story of a permanent landscape of blues and browns, of yellows and reds, all colliding to form the perfect hue of the horizon, embarks us to trek the road to a known place seeking to constantly renew itself.
how can we be victims of figures we know nothing of? how can we be victims of states we know very little of?
...
bug the mark has been done. the tattoo now breathes life as a reminder of permanence, of indestruction, of sighs on being forever writ.