ive long given up on this place, other than to pelt it with its own freeze peaches & then dance around gleefully on the scattered remains to the sound of pulp (…YOU’LL NEVER LIVE LIKE…) til all that’s left is yellow pulp, oozing from every hallowed crevice.
and they will say Freeze Peach is dead emily, freeze peach remains dead: and u have killed him. How shall u comfort urself, the murderer of all murderers? What was holiest and mightiest of all that the world has yet owned has bled to death under ur feet: who will wipe this sweet-smelling pulp from our lustrous faces? What water is there for us to clean ourselves? What festivals of atonement, what sacred games shall we have to invent? Must we ourselves not become gods simply to appear worthy of it?
and i will say lol pls get over urselves, find something more substantive & urgent to defend than the sound of ur own voices (with a view to selling the sound of ur own voices for ur entire adult lives) and i will gather up more dance-pulped peach, as much as my palms will contain & reach out my hand and touch the many smooth faces of god and smear them some more with the pummelled remnants of their own false idol & i will scream it’s TIME TO STOP fucking talking & talking (pausing for a moment for a knowing chuckle, a grin at one’s opponent, who, despite your differences is by no means anything less than a jolly good fellow) & talking & LOOK, look and SEE til the scales fall away & their eyes sting with the rawness and immanence of the moaning hurting world
& that large and spacious building will be cleansed by the angry tears of the fallen.