All The Wrong Topics dot com

splendid Nothing.

people really do not know how to communicate with one another, we are all too afraid to be that person that innovates things, and it is until this energy explodes that everyone still claims the neutral stance… the modern creation refuses to have a dark night of the soul, and to my biased perspective, this is why so many people stay underdeveloped… without a grand metaphorical “darkening”, there is no path towards “purification” of the individual soul, and so the information can get quite confusing… titanic ideals that stomp and weigh in with strength of public opinion, as the general law and humanity compete with each other to prevail, but who loses this game are the people caught in-between each side and faction waiting for something better… some of these people are just as opportunistic as any of the other christian (little “c” to denote sadness) zombie vampires in this world, trying to play people against each other, and feed from off that precious vital energy without the necessary penetrations like the ancient breeds… blood tithes to change the cannibal past of the human soul, the feuds within feuds of reptilian heirs and age-old remnants from a dark seed, outer gods without the ability to incarnate directly without forgetting who they are at first… we have given in to the status quo, the stasis we now know that constricts us and binds us the further we tug at our bondage, even as we speed towards the geriatric retreat… we know somewhere deep, too deep to realize with conscious mind, that it will end brilliantly yet… the unbelief seems more potent, more banal, than the morbid sense of disbelief that pervades the lunatic television culture… that parasite breed like a cockroach crawling sinister things creeping through the yawning maze, it opens out but cannot see its own fate, and the still disastrous results plague the happenstance passers-by when the wasting of years is upon them… this bone machine tamed and conflicted, domesticated through decades of insufferable affliction without the donated effort to understand itself, but is trapped instead in a capitalistic roundabout for now where the natural decay begins to show… the muse sick and abused by the indifferent human beast as the creativity is slowly atrophied out of her bosom, and the screams ring out like sirens in the pitch black air, though no one wants to hear but only go about the struggles they have come to know and love… even as change cracks the silent night, scraping by with the nothing in its pockets, turned inside out by the grotesque engine mankind has put into motion with his domino effect synchronicity…. knocking down pins with a flick of the wrist, bowled over by that damned weight inflicted by a suppressive ideal as we heave it onto our own backs, and those cunning enough laugh at that pitiful grace… the martyr under the skin… willing to give everything under a headstone gloom, or the full moon ranting and raving to make peace with the haunting continuum as it bobs and weaves, wilting under the dry and arid big shitty smell as it works to wreak havoc… nothing is all i ask in return…

Thanks, khet.