a claustrophobic text box. Gloves on, dukes out on their asses; gritted teeth break more easily. The windows to the world are not soft or small, microorganism metaphors be damned. Slime's a cold drink of water. Anarchy loves company, that's the only way it avoids its last one left in the apocalypse dilemma. Faces show anger with their fingers: it's safer and satisfying and staunchly preservative.