The sin in your nightmares, the sin in your dreams.
To contemplate the abyssal future on release from mental incarceration is to find oneself under far more chain than times hence. The palms sweat, the skin salts, pupils dilate and contract in synaptic beat in ode of what's to come. A rollicking staccato of electrical pulses terra forms one once so vibrant and pure, reducing used lines to ash; that sweet taste of vindication never found its way so foul. One has built mountains, one has dug holes; no mutual exclusion present, the trepidation rises within and the mouth of madness hails a mighty roar of exaltation;
Let the unhinging begin.
The compounds burn olfactories, the steel tears epidermal layering, the nectar convalesces with an already destroyed trachea, harnessed nature distorts lung capacity and she brings you to climax. A steady song sung of usury and benefition, parties correlate and interchange a theoretical mapping of charge unto discharge; a failing army of warped checkerboard ailments. Stuck into the imagery of the coporeal playing field of lies, intrigues and ironies; a beautiful chaos erupts deep inside the benevolent angels' muse to the slaves, pawn regicides. Left in the wake of the impending disaster, they all awake with bruises and contusions constricting around their very flesh; a biological artwork of excess without abandon, aforementioned trepidation be damned.
It begins, if it had not already been in a time of perpetual beginnings, a timeframe given to a Tralfamadorian wouldn't say much; but enough by the own accord of Father Yggdrasil, namedrop some more and there will surely be satirical reference humour around the corner; but transitionary periods hence, the constant change of beat to prior mentioned staccato is the steadying impulse that drives one through the monotony of content. The visionary wavers as usual and the structure of the quintessential drugtrip speech is thrown into disarray.
To be taken seriously when musing is an exercise in impossibility, to write poetry, to converse, to scripture, to create art; a pithy illusion of faith whilst under the grip of the eye of the beholder. Considering the subjectivity of those colossal abominations, one can do nothing more than pray for blindness, they already sold it wholesale. To preach the death of art is yet another exercise in folly; a time to discover something new, to turn a new leaf and take a new perspective is still essentially nothing new, it's been done, better than you could've ever conceived.
But you, dear reader, are special; your languid thoughts are still ever so much more than the dead masses, such a matter of interest to show you the cliche and watch you squirm. As always stated, there is absolutely no point to life, but to find something interesting is a driving force - I have found you. Maybe, possibly, who's to know, in effort away from destroying everyone one holds dear in the heat of passionate rage, there might be that little inspiration one so dearly craves to detract from ones' most primeval urges.
Considering the brutalities of a natural lifestyle have been all but excised by humanity; that no man once more will feel the loving compassion of a true subordinate; that no man will once more feel again the loving compassion of a true master; that no man will stand above the twisted wreckage of his foes and know the true exuberance of conquer, what more is there?
Knee deep in sweat, sluts and sin, the idle pleasures stripped away as flesh of the day past is peeled out from nails that danced over such amusementary escapes. Trading the destruction of a thousand enemies for the destruction of a thousand cunts does not bring your humanity back. Nothing more for them here, never; not ever. The women try to probe the armor of their foes and niche themselves within someone perceived their greater; the men seek the weak who'll cling en masse to bolster egotism; both genders insecure leeches of stripped humanity and aforementioned primeval urges. Sigh a sigh.
Let us pray for the next generation, that their compassion may be more raw, brutal, rough and bloody; so that they might find a reason for the place the last generation has created around and for our dehumanized shells.
Freedom is not in apathy.
Freedom is not in statement.
Freedom is not in musing.
Freedom is not dead/th.
You'll probably never find it; but the hope for it will stop you from slashing your motherfucking throat.
Let the unhinging begin.
The compounds burn olfactories, the steel tears epidermal layering, the nectar convalesces with an already destroyed trachea, harnessed nature distorts lung capacity and she brings you to climax. A steady song sung of usury and benefition, parties correlate and interchange a theoretical mapping of charge unto discharge; a failing army of warped checkerboard ailments. Stuck into the imagery of the coporeal playing field of lies, intrigues and ironies; a beautiful chaos erupts deep inside the benevolent angels' muse to the slaves, pawn regicides. Left in the wake of the impending disaster, they all awake with bruises and contusions constricting around their very flesh; a biological artwork of excess without abandon, aforementioned trepidation be damned.
It begins, if it had not already been in a time of perpetual beginnings, a timeframe given to a Tralfamadorian wouldn't say much; but enough by the own accord of Father Yggdrasil, namedrop some more and there will surely be satirical reference humour around the corner; but transitionary periods hence, the constant change of beat to prior mentioned staccato is the steadying impulse that drives one through the monotony of content. The visionary wavers as usual and the structure of the quintessential drugtrip speech is thrown into disarray.
To be taken seriously when musing is an exercise in impossibility, to write poetry, to converse, to scripture, to create art; a pithy illusion of faith whilst under the grip of the eye of the beholder. Considering the subjectivity of those colossal abominations, one can do nothing more than pray for blindness, they already sold it wholesale. To preach the death of art is yet another exercise in folly; a time to discover something new, to turn a new leaf and take a new perspective is still essentially nothing new, it's been done, better than you could've ever conceived.
But you, dear reader, are special; your languid thoughts are still ever so much more than the dead masses, such a matter of interest to show you the cliche and watch you squirm. As always stated, there is absolutely no point to life, but to find something interesting is a driving force - I have found you. Maybe, possibly, who's to know, in effort away from destroying everyone one holds dear in the heat of passionate rage, there might be that little inspiration one so dearly craves to detract from ones' most primeval urges.
Considering the brutalities of a natural lifestyle have been all but excised by humanity; that no man once more will feel the loving compassion of a true subordinate; that no man will once more feel again the loving compassion of a true master; that no man will stand above the twisted wreckage of his foes and know the true exuberance of conquer, what more is there?
Knee deep in sweat, sluts and sin, the idle pleasures stripped away as flesh of the day past is peeled out from nails that danced over such amusementary escapes. Trading the destruction of a thousand enemies for the destruction of a thousand cunts does not bring your humanity back. Nothing more for them here, never; not ever. The women try to probe the armor of their foes and niche themselves within someone perceived their greater; the men seek the weak who'll cling en masse to bolster egotism; both genders insecure leeches of stripped humanity and aforementioned primeval urges. Sigh a sigh.
Let us pray for the next generation, that their compassion may be more raw, brutal, rough and bloody; so that they might find a reason for the place the last generation has created around and for our dehumanized shells.
Freedom is not in apathy.
Freedom is not in statement.
Freedom is not in musing.
Freedom is not dead/th.
You'll probably never find it; but the hope for it will stop you from slashing your motherfucking throat.