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Blanket statement.

it is interesting how any random day can just go smooth, do we kill ourselves over nothing, and then down it plunges again?… the reason the poor are so manifest is that the wealthy find it difficult to separate themselves from their hard-earned selfish streak into a selflessness that is truly foreign to them by now… we find ourselves drained of any and all emotional reserves by the others we seek to find out for ourselves, the seeking is part of the desire to surge forward and seek an apparent destiny, and the gravity of this material plane urging us to hold it so close to our hearts… however, i do not seek these hanging man’s noose before dark skies, and this is what the flow of money has become in my eyes… the distracting and visceral speeches of ornate cataleptic conversions as the spirits are cleansed of their disharmony by the fires of anger, wretched and righteous by equal strokes of the sword as it drags along the pieces of villainous flesh as it goes, but the stab and thrust into the trusting soul is perceived religiously as dervishes dance around the flames of the unknown… the sheathed bastard blades take their phallic substitutions away into the darkness of a creeping masculinity, while the dominant of the feminine class become the ruling directive among the other queens and slaves, with an undiluted fatalism that leads the youth astray for rebellious group activity… the age is empty with glassy-eyed frames to magnify this strange sunlit wave that beats down and burns with soft, sizzling strokes… this satisfying plunge into a torrential wind swept with scents of any other way than what is known, the mind is sensitive and rises up to greet these olfactory memes with spicy essence transfiguring the time and space in-between the spaces, but the time has come to wander on in… as i just turned on the whirlpool, and your bath for the brainwashing was prepared long before i got Here… i am merely an afterthought in some giant’s dream, but you and i still interact together in this virtual world of blank verse and pictographic words depicting urges you have never heard before, these voices that pulse with the wired feeling for fate… that deja vu was just great… somehow i don’t believe you, and you need to take off your shoes, else you can never enjoy this diatribe properly… you toss aside all shambles when the barest essentials fall apart, but what have you left when you need something the most?… the spectacle of our lives is witnessed only from the outside by the others, but because of the nature of the beast, we must experience ourselves alone or else it truly escapes us why we are Here in first place… the mastery of self takes many forms, and sometimes we do repeat lessons that we too soon forget require our feedback to retain active motion… at times the art of love is but the re-manifestation of the procreative purge that inflicts its needs upon us, the retaining and refining of the physical deformity we openly praise for its ascension to the earthen floor of this wholesome place, but is there ever really time for even this tragic confidence that breaks a sullen form into the ether?… the quaking poetic bliss, always the need for more than this as we are the multifaceted beings in an incredible undertaking to make ourselves and anything around us “better”, but i ask under what measure is this so resolvedly made?… we are not merely puppets on the strings of someone else, the wrist flicking and shuddering echoing through the nerves so near to the surface of our skin, but to those thoroughly inbred beasts we look naive and tame like we are man but merely animals… to be herded and shuffled around…

Thanks, khet.