As their love of life subsided

As choking screeches reached a peak, aged children’s sickly heaven became only edging, never ecstasy—the self-mutilating journey to escape reality;

their hell’s gate: the instant a boregasm began to decline;

there, a cluttered mountain of discarded wombs and pointless warriors—all fake-fucking their way through the tears of a slow, sterilized suicide;

as minders strove to stabilize the terror they had normalized in titanic mazes of musical chairs, rearranged by color—from white to white.

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