Tekster: The End. Fetesque.

Infertile wet soil's where it begins. Composition. Mud and skin. Blessed
scavengers foraging through the thing once fetal, but not dead. The
messengers are maggots, meat on their lips. Roots through throat, mouth and
eyes. Growth tears through the organic mass. Fauna is fucking flora in the
open wide. The oubliette, separation, abandonment. Those are true death.
Stalk against stake will be reaped. It bears the seed of those to be freed.
So suck and swallow it, wash it down with green fluid. That aftertast e is
life. So soft to the touch, in the afterbirth they fell in upon themselves.
When absence takes the young away, don't just stop. Use what's left to
rebuild from the ground up, and it will be. Inside those proteins. A renewed
life being released with bile's ease from the germinated seed. We reaped and
fed. Ingesting them and then loved and bred, remade them in out image. Then
dug holes that hid all our secrets.