Drip...
Drip...
Drip...
Through which path doth flow the ichor eternal?
That of witting ilk, or of restless slumber, with which its roads meet in a dance most macabre?
With what measure does one begin and it's mirror end?
That which bleeds it whom has a parasitic ravenousness guiding it's hand is no less a parasite in it's crowded cadaver.
Drip...
Drip...
Drip...