One of these days, it's going to come... One of these times, You will not run... You'll carry that weight, Throughout all your changes. While everything falls apart, When all of it rearranges. And that world will pull you Down for good And that world will do Exactly what it should

Woken up too early, Yet continuing my dreaming A vicious feasting Carrion impulses A straining and collapsing A frightening point, a sharpening of views So strained and so forceful A straight-laced disciple But nothing's of significance Nothing is necessary Pictures are fallacies, Moments of treachery Drawing on our smiles, The faking of everything Time will come, When time's undone Hide ourselves, Shame our souls Decomposing bags of bone And you're so welcome, and so faithful So perfect, and so fucking everything Empty bottles strike out broken prose, While painting on a certain majesty Notes from underground, I play the guillotine Poetry pulled from banality.

The period at the end of an illegible scrawl of a sentence; a universal scream heard by many which are already living in agony. A scream which simply fades out like an impotent sigh - something which can end this lethargic embargo you place over living your lives. I want to give a beautiful speech at the end of the world - a rousing and inspiring collection of thoughts expressed eloquently through a dying language that is ultimately too little too late; absurd and utterly meaningless - almost insulting, as life burns away. Meanwhile, I say try.... They need symbols to stand in for things of importance because we are all so small and superfluous. I believe it was Henry Fool who once said, "We know we have fallen because we know who we are". So - do we know we have fallen because we know who we are? One must ask children how strawberries taste to ever truly comprehend a pure sensation such as life. Your philosophies will drown, impoverished and incomplete while a child's mind draws circles around intelligence- running down ideologies and tackling them into the dirt with infectious laughter straight from a real, humble soul. The nature of nature in its natural egress. Haunt these endless limits we dream about - imbibing feverish nightmares of limitless endings. Mysterious misanthropes with determination leaking from their pens: the kings of "if", the kings of "when". A sick, strung out and overwhelming christmas of ideas here... everything that can be imagined can be bombed. Have faith in the evil men do - they'll surprise you with their savagery, their horror, their gods... You are not clever, you are not funny, you are not beautiful, you are not smart, you are not talented, you are not. You are not. You are the pot calling the kettle back, to call it black again and again, ad nauseam. The fool is hurt, the fool is hurt! - and what’s worse, he revisits his pain. Awkward, insatiable and precariously drugged. It is in this moment that life absentmindedly descends into revolt. Alleviation is only an echo, trailing our orgasmic grunts of superficial satisfaction. You have to understand this whole conviction… no, we have to understand so much more. Invented and preconceived gestures of limp grandiosity. Your petroleum drug and the meaningless qualities of learning yourselves. There is an insincerity in your heart; a false, baseless prejudice that you push into the world. Mediocrity in full bloom, watered daily with the saliva from your lying tongue. Open on ___ Fade in on ___ Cut to ___ Fine.