We are ghosts trying to become visible.
We like rituals. We believe in shadows and whispers. We dream under dead trees. Our face in mysterious flows. With dark eyes. We work for the night.
There is nothing in our pockets. Only our hands. Our arms are dogs. Our craniums are bowls. We heal with small wounds. With splinters. We feed from the automat. Our art is motorized and swills down kerosene. We can go everywhere. We have ten lives.
We are jet engines. Parachutes. Minerva casts to twist your life. We are an archipelago. A black market. A display of diseases. Our motion is perpetual. Our resources come from garbage. Our mouths are creaking drawers. We cry stalactites. We create accidents. We are farmers. Under our closed eyelids lies an ant- hill that we farm with a pitchfork. And everything we lay our eyes upon grasps us.
Let us in your home. We want to hold you tight against our closed shutters. Against our doors and our beams. To caress you to life. To inject you with a needle of art. To insert a fine and fragile drizzle into you. If your dreams trickle down your umbrella, then it is a nice weather.
Alas service match fodder transcontinental prestidigitation. Here are the words that agree with us.
If nothing satisfies you we are the appetite that you need. We will blow your mind eventually, so go for it: