the sounds of inners resinate

how the body churns itself into a small ball.
the moist happenings of every day make noises that echo throughout the smallest chamber. The walls are white.
the shelves are full
magazines stare back, with their nasty grins, and powdered noses, poreless skin.

The blue chairs contain rocks as stuffing. Horrible rocks that nip and threaten at every movement preformed. The rocks come from the most deadly island on this planet, the island of gringor. Gringor was a bountyful man at one point in history. His good fourtune, hygene, and dazzling smile would melt the citizens hearts on a day-to-day basis. The wonders of his man grew so deep in the secioty, that many miniture shrines would be set up. The most luxzrious shrine resided at the Honluga residence. A huge manor which over looked the entier city. This shrine was ever so delightful, on account of it's outreageously tall ceilings and hand painted potery. Gringgor had acces to it only, which is quite odd since it was a shrine dedicated to him.
In fact, now that I recall..Gringor was a horribly strange man.
The crinkle of his eye was filled with segma, the most awful of human cheeses. His upperlip was never really connected with his face, simply a metaphor, or simalie. his awful mouth that beard nothing but black fleshy moss and bile. The knicks cut from his throat were infected and pussing green. Intent little creatures resided in the pits of his flabby arms to live off the liquid bacterias and beets milk that was created there. The blood that constantly bled from his razer sharp fingernails, was pure black. Folleculues were mashed and crushed and sliced open by a foreboding sense of escape. His only method of living was to gross forests and cakes of lice in his hair sell them on the streets in winter. It was like the essence of him was truly rotting the trees in every forest. Was sinking every battle ship, with one hateful glare. The aura of him was drowning the young, killing the old. The fact that this horrid man exsisted connected the fire with hell. Putrid, distasteful being. Purest hellfire shit. He was worth no time, no morcel.
The citizens that admired him so, were indeed citizens. They were the rats of the town, citizens of filth and grim. The rats and sewage and aging blood and crusting phlem and putrid puss and aborted gastly fingernails began to wimper softly in the streets. The began to ask him questions. To create religions. To create the essence of Gringor.