Brake Pedal
the turnstile to the mortuary never stops ticking, the embalmer never stops colouring the lips of all the female corpses rouge , it’s a trade secret a subterfuge to portray the dead as sleeping in peace the deceased, troubled souls that took their spiritual seatbelts off the split second fate stamped down on their pulmonary artery as if it was a brake pedal killing them instantly as they collided with the windscreen of their own mortality
