(no subject)
Laying like a limp, scared, wounded and whimpering wolf, yellowed eyes darting from dune to dune in search of the reaper - this is how pathetic your life has become. The stylus styles your every movement from flawless endeavors to enchanting holistic tomes, yet what have you learned from it? Nothing is the answer just as nothing is your existence; a subordinate conscience stemming from annotated annuals.
But beneath your soylent cereals and your shiny shell grows a sickness grasping for containment, a self-defeating disease knowing of and spelling out the end. Groveling gravitations turn to frenzied exacerbations as you pick and scratch at the scabs you’ve achingly inflicted, as numerous and as meaningless as the stars themselves. A mirror of complacency reflects naught but transparency as the phantoms of half-truths swell and swelter under the thickening sun.
Storaged inhibitions springing water coalitions can only take one so far, however. The merchants and scavengers pick clean your remains when you let them.
Give a vulture an inch if you’re ready to lose thirteen miles.
Alas, your canteen of guilt has all but dried up; there is little left to do but deconstruct the diving rod and cut your losses as you’ve cut your teeth. What do the dead have that the living envy, besides peace of mind and a plot of soil? The great equalizer hath spoken, and finds you unworthy of traversing the aforementioned distances.
It seems your entire party has contracted cholera. Maybe you should have bought more medicine and fewer bullets at the start of your journey.
Idiot.
But beneath your soylent cereals and your shiny shell grows a sickness grasping for containment, a self-defeating disease knowing of and spelling out the end. Groveling gravitations turn to frenzied exacerbations as you pick and scratch at the scabs you’ve achingly inflicted, as numerous and as meaningless as the stars themselves. A mirror of complacency reflects naught but transparency as the phantoms of half-truths swell and swelter under the thickening sun.
Storaged inhibitions springing water coalitions can only take one so far, however. The merchants and scavengers pick clean your remains when you let them.
Give a vulture an inch if you’re ready to lose thirteen miles.
Alas, your canteen of guilt has all but dried up; there is little left to do but deconstruct the diving rod and cut your losses as you’ve cut your teeth. What do the dead have that the living envy, besides peace of mind and a plot of soil? The great equalizer hath spoken, and finds you unworthy of traversing the aforementioned distances.
It seems your entire party has contracted cholera. Maybe you should have bought more medicine and fewer bullets at the start of your journey.
Idiot.