Seems like Butler wants to summon some otherworldly, archetypal being of Life, and uses the imagery of our presence of blood hidden behind our limbs as the mystical vehicle. Prose, indeed, and ceremonial perhaps? The rhythmic subtlety invoked gets broken by the bluntness of the subject matter, which doesn't all mesh well... Whose intentions should I be questioning, the writer or the reader?
— Apr 24, 2013 11:31AM
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