I’ll be your G(‡)Dless mechanical bride when you promise you’ll seal me up in a watertight coffin. I request you don’t let my holographic entrails of the suspected fifth dimension leak from my cracked ribs stamped with so many “and then, and thens,” considering they’re all in reminisce of you. The funny thing is, after attempting such a bold statement of nearly dead celebrity, I escaped the clavicular pain and exposed myself to the survivable sun—but the story doesn’t stop there (it never does without a camera flash as vitamin supplement for the hollow soul). Reaching the bottom, I strode and still decided a healthy choice should be accompanied with an eventual, unavoidable sickness.
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