Violence! Violence! Violence! I demand my metaphors be soaked, marinated, embroiled, galvanized, and even brought into holy matrimony with violence!
It's a trip, it runs back and forth between the layers of my perception. First scent, then taste, then touch as a fist collides with my jaw, knocking a molar out, but I love it nevertheless. I wanna brawl on the weeds-and-gravel ground behind an old, brick pharmacy in a town long abandoned with this piece. I love it. Stellar work you two. You've satiated my hunger for the manic yet sensible, the strange yet familiar.
You are born in the future, you present thing, and I only see the ghost of your afterimage, a flash photo taken into the past.
I mentioned how much I adore this line in my crit, but I feel the need to reiterate it because it's joined the ranks of random lines that pass through my mind on occasion.