She recoils from nothing.
Her armour gilded in beauty and brutality is invisible to the eye of the non beholden.
Those that seek gratification from deprecating her form are bound to bedroom antics of ill health, sat in seats of piss and bile, marauding over the hatred pointed at others, the hatred of the purest form of art.
The masturbation of mind and body becomes an evil thing and the words that correspond with the spasms of pleasure are ignored to the extent of idiocy.
A piss factory.
The image of gone again.
Reviled and worshiped.
Always excess of ambivalence.


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