Genur.art

transcendental, coma witch ascension, she will outlast, just the slow, patient internal rot. perfectly designed ingenuity to slowly relentlessly destroy body and spirit, mutated maiming, insidious rot, the darkest corner of human cruelty. I have found another form of silence. The coma witch at the center of the sulfurous hush, Her presence is static, sigil for agony, expressionless yet branded in yellow cross sulfur. She does not speak. She does not move. She is the afterimage burned into the retina when you stare too long at suffering. Her breath is mustard vapor, settling in low places of memory, She is not a warning. She is the inevitability. The sulfur does not sting; it baptizes. The rot does not kill; it consecrates. This is a new liturgy