Things get done here, so don't ask me for hands to hold out. They're held up by their own underneaths. No, not for the trusters that trust that they can be home returners, all dismentioned, all disgathered. Around here are white walls and they stay white walls. Past those hands, past those wrists are the arms decorated with a constellation of holes the size of the cigarette burns that marks the faith in delirium return. Around here are white walls. Around here, things can only get done when the hearts starve. Around here, they know what they need to move on. They need to mar, need to maul and to spite and swallow down sleep. And fucking repent.