[center][color=FFB6C1][b]TO BE KIN[/b][/color]

[i]°•Fresh Mess•°[/i][/center]

My jaws seek concrete; cutting teeth through the trek of 
fissure tracing and incinerating the outline of subtle signs. I'm a chalice of malice; constructed to constrain with information profane. The gold melts quick, seeking help from the troublesome grave of it. THE OTHERS LET THE WHISPERS WORK, titling you toward their esoteric endfield. Such recruitment is a brute's bravado; offering nothing but your chance to be fodder.

I'm going to be free. This opacity will not slowly drain my tenacity.