Unveiling like a flood. The dream king is reaping his queens. After several sleepless evenings amongst the collective of bees he's taking his time thinning the hive. Holiest matrimony.

He moves so slow when unwrapping the package. Fingertips are glacial in their madness. It's hibernation at half-speed when the weeping organs leave. The sickle is carving our way home.

We can float here forever. In his jars together!

This funeral procession is my profession. This funeral procession is my profession. Can you feel my palms in your head? Can you feel my palms in your head? You've been sown and reaped. You're dead. Your're all dead!

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