Aether

I am losing my identity to the reductions of my alchemy – the new self each conversion brings has ineffably lost something – a step, a joke, reaction speed. My distillations broke my need for romantic dependence; the melanosis of my heart has finally ended, now it’s whiter than an egg shell – it is purer than all hell. Soon the alcohol will yellow out my softer parts as well and even less will lookers smile, even less will nice nails dial – oh to transmute all this style into one accurate word –

My saliva is so caustic they use it to dissolve shit made of gold. And I am old – I am so very, very old my soul has wandered every road the mighty Romans interwove a pair millenia ago on a continent I’d go to if I ever had the money for things beyond my runny nose and treachery and alchemy. The most dangerous doctor is the one that self-treats. My soul is old and hard and whiter than a painted white egg shell and each reduction is seduction, is destruction of the edges –

There is something that I want that I would like to have.

 

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~ by perfectionatrix on December 22, 2011.

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