Fill the windows to the brim,
all mockery, strange fixation
blazing thoughtfully through question.
Naturally, the exactness
shutters patience, thus
we go on tumbling.
Desperate wealth, crumbling
on all fours. So much the better.
Hadn’t we abided to the letter
the mandate issued from the porcelain finger
pressing us in place?
The night is nothing but torn lace
and a new form of frenzy,
substantial in theory only.
-r. miller
*Insert Propaganda Here* 