And something wasn’t quite right.

Is there another year, this time? Another year, another horrorshow, unimaginable… time flies, why cannot it be stopped? The beating of existence… that vile pulse, the rhythm of the beating on a drum strung with human hide by some abominable monstrosity, hollow and empty like loneliness; eviscerating darkness seeping out from between the numbers, ageing us, destroying all; the concrete crumbles and flowers red and yellow and blue grow, wither and decompose. Flesh turns from red to brown to soggy black mush and to thick mud and merges with all else, becomes as one, you might say. Where’s my fucking time machine?