Bikini Atoll

At the test bungalows, there is an atom in the middle. Hydrogen. Tasted like potential for waning floor, glossy syntax; the fire our ripple relation hallelujah. Ideas decompose on the maggoty shelf; fear spurs us on. Beneath the sheen, church is our criminal, amateur discretion--voting against raring circulation, bioengineering, we breath death. There is no replacement, Major, this is the act of now. This test is but an ingate, silt to a beautiful harvest, verification for destruction.