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Self-justified messy antics.

A near total isolation from the beginning, we lift the other to extraordinary heights, and wonder with awe what it all ever was from the distance… the balls are always in a vice, throbbing with a pain that can only be felt from a disrobed stroke in the claustrophobic constraints of those traveling pants, and the nervous break dance of having to pee real bad… an ache without mistaken faking depth that cradles the map of the subconscious, that displaced trip through time and space, invaders and defenders trapped in the confinement… decisive devices carry out the lords of destruction, I find myself cringing with my fists out in front, and the sudden impulse to strike out… lashing only against the sides of hell, the silence felt so deeply when all else might be alright in some way, but cannot be… the nervous, twitching demiurge develops the sage advice, but few trust what hopes are sliced into quarters drawn and curved… though thoroughly observed from the views of quiet words, a helpless nerve repents to take what it deserves, and lashes out into that spacious particular empty between things…

Thanks, khet.