Baptized before the gaze held by the vacuum's faithful deacons. With pupils gestating the milk of fleeting centuries. They collapse in praise with necks too frail for gravity. A shrine of loneliness envelops the entrancing patterns of their liver spots. Witness the hermit court. A foul altar for their bed sores to weep before. Scars like spiral galaxies on sedentary flesh. Torn out sore throats coated with insightful eyes. Ignoring their inevitable return to the dust they worship.