All The Wrong Topics dot com

Fantastagorical.

fantasy, the fantastic, what is the real world, and why do these silly people play games of such dire magnitude?… are they being possessed by a malign spirit, that devil that crawls inside of you, and we are left wondering what imperative to follow in the remains of the day… the fever takes one so easily, the desire to writhe upon the ground floor with a book of holy words in the hands to castigate the promiscuity with metaphysical fiendish urge out of breath and bones to stem this mighty theurgy pouring from within, but the will to succeed this finite experience is staggeringly high without any more of a will or liberty to speak… each being is finite matter in the process of subtle (and at times sudden) transmutation into other forms, but subtly enmeshed with the universal psyche that allows for individual ministrations among the people, however the journey at this point never stops even though it might feel like a linear futility… we speak with mouths sewn shut when spoken to, tongues cursed as the words leave our lips, and we give into those heartless tricks the vital energy that sparks this sudden burst of life sprayed all over the six walls forming the cells and our hallowed halls of power in cycles gone wrong… the cursed are ruling the world, and making our lifeforms into sufferers as sacrificial lambs delivered to the evil to further their own ends through betrayal and manipulations making most of us wish we were extinct, for which there are far too many words to write Here to convey the point without too many glaring-eyed stares eating and suckling for a taste of my wares… the atrocious forms that desecrate the social queries among people that would have fared far better without sarcasm, fear or guilt, but we have discovered a whirlpool from which tensions are cracked and broken as the television faces keep changing as they spit out the modern vomit for our minds to read… enhanced by the fascist amphetamines that riddle our bodies and brains attached with psychotic frenzy no drugs can match even as they might try to feed them to you, in the dark of your echoing subconscious mire rich with pain and pleasure, and awaiting all liars the killers of all desire those urge-less things inside of you or i that stir… cater to your weakness, and weak feeling will prevail even for the protected and theirs, embroiled with more of those warrior whores who take care of their business with a stroke of the sword or perhaps a mightier pen that can legislate to defy a will of the people or for the people… utterly undermine all hope and self control to wage war within the human soul, even though we may have gotten this far so rather ill-fatedly by the seat of our dance through the human struggle, but do we dance ’cause we wanna or do we tread some other line?… maybe the dotted line upon which our signature is written like a sigil marking our place in this spaced race holding the breath under which we chant, ‘die, stoner, die!’ never wondering how this even came up at all as the mercy is forestalled by mindless preference to taking orders from the new fascist plague, but perhaps wondering where we ever first began to lose our civility and forgiveness for humanity’s frail definition of reality as dominated by the inevitable wrong opinion that gains universal acceptance before anything else thus deforming the rest of us in the wake of the impulse… disaster is the seat of this empire, of any empire that tries to demand a common sense from the human superstition with its writings on the wall, scrawling from the ages preserved by slippery agendas to find power wherever it lies as an unused and untapped potential as yet discovered by this demon Man the ever-searching despoiler who believes he can reside above the rest of humanity that spawns him, but do there need to be these violent rages alone to break the preprogrammed woes and any assumed distractions that must remain attractive?… there has to be a more peaceful way Here…

Thanks, khet.