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…electRomantique…

…crude mystic symbols throb in the heart colors intermingled with triggering images presented like mnemonic devices that haunt us to this very day what with our viewpoints sometimes so astray are we really in the righteous space enough to tell all about the chaos and intrigue Here with a straight face because how fucked it has been to witness it thus far from a very limited scale of looking at things in a different light than what may be allowed in the first place containing some vital clues as to how and who doctored this tidbit of knowledge to begin with let alone weaponizing in the name of some idea of spiritual advancement though still unproven by anyone just words, to declare and make us all feel so guilty that we take ourselves out of the human equation whether so slow and deliberately or caught in the immediate heats of passion only quelled by blood and sacrifice almost as if always on a battleground of one sort or another on the lookout for any enemy supposed as we are so predisposed to violence deep in the elemental animal cage beats a fist-sized muscle that never relents to the point of harming its live-in caretaker so easily it is truly scary and confusing to think who we really pledge any allegiance toward to guide the civilized mediocrity into states of resolution not revolution as peace must come from somewhere there beats a heart, instead of this gaseous claim that bears no weight merely the stink of frustrating others away from sheer incompetence where only demons and great people are to tread with any success no matter the reputation that is evoked by taint-amount of missteps Here locked in a thought space like a sewer catching all the nastiest detritus that tugs on through the rest of a brackish sea below the surface of an inhumane traffic holding us against our wills to the effect that more than a few will drown underneath the waves becoming another objectified and forgotten floater… the bowls about to be flushed remains a place where the chips have fallen most perhaps labored over upon the poker table as opposed to the slab where old horrors become new again and again for those claiming to have the stomach for these things even if staring into the broken face of a close relative fighting back the compulsion to run away like a child terrified without a word of all the layers that this can involve even though it is considered a taboo to speak on the technical details of mortality in almost any day and age because it evokes a fear of loss and rhythm of grief and hopes for the future can coincide all at once making recovery from such events difficult, words allow for our minds to be soothed as much defiled because of the multiple thin lines able to be crossed depending upon how moods and intention have become layered and woven together within the person as well as direct reflex memory of experiences one has consumed and digested past the immediate threshold of utility incorporating knowledge into actions and their consequences Here without question as perfection remains only conceptual truth for which there is no superficial proof of fact only the context upon which we act creating a motion sometimes pivotal that a whole population must react or fail to advance, the target has still been left unattainable because we divide and conquer our distractions before priorities even when these behaviors get us into worldwide messes we cannot clean up so easily without destruction…

thanks, khet_:/