drain_flies raze i tell myself each black body i crush is a year gone from my life. tonight i count eight spins around the sun. you're only doing what you were designed to do. but i can't have you filling the funnel that feeds my fractured dreams. so i send you to whatever afterlife there is for insects. if each lash that leaves its lid is a small death good enough to wish on, what response is warranted here? 251108 what's it to you? who go blather from