Recut my teeth on your cold glazen skin. Trying to expose the sand beneath, for mine is whole and so is yours. Yet suspended above their mosaic of disgust, for all of our ablutions, we are all still full of holes. Recut my teeth on your cold, glazen skin. Misdirection interrupts our monologue of despair, offering recourse to oblivion. Recut my teeth. Forever betrothed to nihility. swathed in the mantle of the void, we find peace in our graves.