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Anesthetize the disease.

antiseptic, the syringe digs deeply underneath the skin… it is difficult to commit solely to the self when all around there are snide comments and remarks that a person should remain selfless with all the suffering unjust in this world, but the only way to assure something as beautiful as freedom, one needs to make concessions with the force within the self that represents ‘god’… resuscitating the withered erections of the plague-wrapped meat-made bits and bytes, as the alarm sounds in the near distance, and we yet again are led to the ringing machine that pays us to abuse ourselves… the system lets us grant them that power over our emotions and logical conclusions, but there are no absolute rules or rulers to measure the whole fiasco against, it is all just left as dead weight on our shoulders… our burden of response ability to define individually before we can even begin to do good things in this world without its touch infecting you… the conscience craving for some kind of deeper relationship to our cruel admission price of a solid plateau this indifferent because we are our own gods assembled to make things proof of living, and this is the purpose for all of us to fulfill to some degree or another… a psychedelic pinwheel flared like a good pair of bell-bottoms, and revolves around us and inspires us to move beyond the self-imposed constraints of a timed out and spaced out phase, this dirty vagua-bondage we ourselves are figuring out the right escape plans to unzip the jacket safely… we reveal ourselves to each other as agents of fortune randomly placed in the foreground at odd intervals of timing, whether conscious of the actions we take or certain that we are not the catalysts for a detrimental future, but either way we have to find what effects this culture has upon all of us… we are born into a world where a singular vision and sense of the world are found at opposite ends of the substantial spectrum, as the material world caves in to build itself up into a real impulse of carnation and creation, and it relies upon our never-ending urge to procreate and populate to use us as the great weapon to end an era of misery and mayhem… we feel like a cure needs to be realized to gain footing equal to the landslide we are surfing upon toward the bottom of this queer suspension of disbelief, but maybe if we keep hoping and praying, this will enlighten us all with proof of what we need to drive us… i am diseased and i am unclean, i am not part of god’s well-oiled machine, but to which gods are we praying when once we wish to make our desires so certain and real?… the spots itch especially when our uncertainty about decision conflicts with our intuition from the bowels of what we know instinctively, the humanity we take for granted has yet to be attained in the encompassing impression of this vast micro cosmos for which we do not have any perfect explanation, but not usually a solution that … the world as it is now hits a dead-eyed spot that we have no valid position on which to change, but the tendency to alter our mood to cope through the life-threatening expanses in this darkened terrain that sits and swallows us in bouts of angst-fueled and rage-inspired drunken tirades through the big shitty at night, we crawl around on our bellies before nightmares made flesh Here for a second to grace their presence and let them fondle our fat little cells…

Thanks, khet.