Alan Moore - Watchmen #12

It is common now to place the essence of life into that of another . Numerous times, this has been done. New question: can a soul descend into its own material self and somehow speak?  Time to find out.

Buncha do nothings, deadend bored at the bar, desperate to keep away the night, riding sleek, red single-rider beasts into the maw of the city, slipping between teeth and nearly swallowed by the belly of it all. Sometimes the future comes to us from places that we didn't expect.

Man, the strait waistcoat that folds over struggling breast, weighs tightly. Heavy, coarse-haired, inescapable, old when history was young, he binds wrists and spreads legs. He is a charnel house. What will remain from his passing? "So, uh...How much do I owe you for the clean underpants?"

The peen of a hammer unsheathed crunches the unsuspecting sternum of child trafficker baddies. He climbs their bodies, bludgeoning bone. Somewhere in all this violence, innocence huddles, waiting. "Looks like a Chinese mute looking for his daughter."

Red volcanic screams sought peace, blooming fire and sucking dust. To no avail. Peace instead inched its way into the world through a firm foot slid backwards into sand, through piteous burning whimpers, and through thin filaments of care.  "My heart's pounding."

O Seymour, Crank file keeper, Reach through those thin missives. O Seymour, Green shirt avatar, Grasp the leather-bound truth.   O Seymour, You are A stomach Ready to burst.   "You have two more pages to fill before you eat, thanks to that goddammed ass-kissing accord!"

Whether on green, unbroken crests Or across the barreled boneyard, Love fetches and lifts. Keep your ear close to the face of the wave, Let its thunderous static surround you. "Two bricks coming up."

Faced with the threat of burning, crawling, infectious hatred, Of mothers clutching babies, popping thin skulls on cobblestone, Of last days in the third Cybertronian war, The second king quested and beguiled Ripped wisdom from the heart of his son, And in a sacrifice of souls proclaimed, "Now light our darkest hour." "- But Prime, I'm just a soldier. I'm not worthy. - Nor was I."

He asks you to ask questions about yourself, All the while imagining a scalpel-sharp blade Severing your horizontal fissure,  Soft pink cubes soon soaked in vinegar For ten minutes or more, Before washed, salted and spiced,  Cooked and finally fried, A thin sliver of smile across his face.   "You have to convince yourself the lion is not in the room. When it is, I assure you, you will know."

The pressure of sex Bends mirrored love Like stone on spandex; It shatters it into thin sharp fragments, And then mends it, fitting glass madly, Until time and choice collapse.   "Time to win some hearts and minds!"