A crippled, disfigured mannequin looms beneath the surface of their souls, persistently attempting to penetrate the canopy that covers the deadly machine. Like an adult using a baby's blanket to keep warm, it cannot hope to conceal every mechanism, every decal, every patriotic symbol of liberty and freedom
Effluential rivers pour from every crevice, the device fastidiously giving birth to blood-clots, lusting for the target. Lacking in dismal quality of aim.
Eerie precision is on the minds of all those who hide from the chromed, tyrannical subversives clothed in cotton and wool.
In a world this cold, vehemence is atrophied in the name of avarice. Motivation is oblique, just as sand falling through clasped hands reaching towards the clouds. Falling to the earth in a futile tactical manoeuvre, duck and cover, the nuclear cherubs approach.