Wheeling Gull Isle derrida

the sound was heard.

the corpse spent another prolonged moment reviewing its last thought, muttering along with it.

"theillusionofcasualtyremainsintactcapablefromownperspectiveofmakinganychoicedespitedirectcontradictionblessingandcurseandyet-"

it was still before, but now not even dying breath moved its form. 

the dead head turned to the other.

"hail." said in deep rumble, sound drowned by own timbre.