Iron lungs simmer with countless algorithms poised to rewrite form and function. Cough a bullet to synapse leaking chakra. These counter clockwise arms are versed in ghost alchemy and precise calculus. They storm with analogue feedback. Ears bleed. Mouths run dry. For all, I spit conspicuous consumption. Mars will be the foundation of my flesh totem. We are the Gods Of Plunder. We are Mass Extinction. Push Ctrl-Alt-Del for salvation.
Spam in a Khan like nobody can.
The Revolution will be TiVoed...