I like chicken.
Do you have any idea what this means? It's the disgraceful, utter proof that this blog is furthest from dead. It's raw spinach with zombie spleen noodles and flea chitin. It's the stuff that dreammares are made from. It's the nectar that seraphims
ejacudrink. It's the very essence of existence and the firmament that holds the worlds together, the limbs that hold the wild, yet undomesticated child of life with unlife, the darkness before the light and the light before the darkness, the unperceivable within the perceivable, the holy and the unholy, the sacred and the profane, the cursed and the blessed, the beta and the psi.
This is dinner, yet this is the wedding of the vermin that compose each of us.
This is SPARTA.
And Sparta never dies.
