A pressed hand against a rough surface erases the ruins like chalk, so lightly brushed to cold winds. Our liturgy, lest we forget their names. Your revenue, your repentance. Our voice crushed under miles of paper and ink. A suffocating smog born of ceaseless error. Ills of a society bent on capital, breeding thrones for fools. Thousands crushed under the march of the avatar. A head, disembodied, born of murk and fortune, ruling the starved, driving the weary. Carnival lights to blind and erase; a famine for a slow death.