An invoce from death
I reckon one of the gears needs to be changed. And all these disgusting and stenching grease, all over me; has left me estranged. Away and beyond from any kind of humane thinking. Though why do I ought to feel those humane traits, towards and out these diseased leeches? But what am I writing for God's sake? I have become blasphemous towards what I am ready to give more of it, in spite of spite—they'd honour me, despite. I remember as I try to write the suffocating grease away! That I wasn't like this... But there's no soap for this industrial stench. There is no way out of this dooming toil!! ... But to simply be part of it and—conform.
