Kristen M. | Sewer Goddess echo's like the voice of rust. Like a pole dance from a mutilated corpse. Like the chaos and filth that collects in the gutters and the cracks in the sidewalks. Like the sadness and shamed lust of glory holes, like the hum of fluorescent light sliding through the grates of a killing floor. Like fucking. Like dying. Black atmospheres spiraling down into discordia. Like time eating itself. Like drugs. Like contempt, madness, and lust. The tune you hum unawares leaving the Doctors office where you've just received your diagnosis: INOPERABLE.