August 20, 2011

So many cluttered spaces always opening and closing, holes to fill. Writhing spires, rising machinery. The decadence of offering sanity to those who scream for flesh. The sanity of offering decadence… The reward for dead hearts, limp declarations of ignorance held high. Can you smell the sticky sweet?

Broken cavities like growing up to find you’re not the doctor/fireman/astronaut/veterinarian you expected to be. Wallowing alone. Faltering breathlessly. No one wants to take your hand anymore. Not after what you’ve done. So take a breath and become the damaged property you never even imagined growing up to be.

Hold your head up, filth. Try to believe you could ever forget this.


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