Your Body, Actually for HC There is only so much content at hand and life has become very straightforward. One option unfolds another: touch me and die. Reassuring as a sinkhole, totally. Seasons come on as a sausage restaurant, hopeful, with all its blinding trinkets and inherited imagery. No other replies needed. We are living in a post-sacred age, so it's official, nothing is sacred. It's official: leather pyjamas. Go away, thoroughly, where winds have worn deserts to a whistle, rocks shaped to a gesture. How many rugs were pulled from under us? And will we know a burning platform among all this interference, this life of soft graft.
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