In erasing our bodies, so glorious, we will forget what was and move on. And what we cannot grow will stay gone. If all our shells crumble and fall, we'll be better off.
All of the races will erase themselves. Still, don't think me sick for wanting you smug little shits to be gone, with every bad tattoo that will remove itself from you. Every fashion statement you've made that will relinquish your name––will be cleared from your past like every fanny pack and ugly turtle neck's unholy holes you've put things through, you've put me through.