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that resin left.

The droppings left on the ground formed a cake of black tar. There was no smell except that of a plastic soul embedded somewhere in the crust of its depth. The ground it was laying upon yielded to the substance as it absorbed into the dirt, making a place for itself within the seeping fingers of the still liquid underside, and prevented all normal growth from underneath. The texture, to the touch of anyone who dared, was noted for its sticky compliance yet absolute solidity when stressed. A potent substance derived from nothing… so nothing is the only result. Thoughts lost when least expected, to be left for another vacant mind, and perhaps leading to innovation in some regard. A terrible feeling, to know the dark matter was once a part of you, but the other part of you yet unknown. In sleep, the nightmares form unrelenting, but appear intermittently with those rising negative emotions unleashed under the crest of a full moon. As the spitting away of heinous vowels and consonants grows almost inescapable. The fevers increase with despicable ease, and the blood and ire seem more furious in their assaults on your senses. The eyes fear to see, the ears fret to hear, and all conjoined feelings of isolation become wholly real. Is it fear to see the self in a different light then that which was previously known? The outside becoming dim to opaque without hesitation. Locked away inside the eggshell veneer waiting like a defensive animal for the next, in anticipation of attack, and from the intimidating predator from within. The voice in your mind that tells you where you failed. Constantly chattering on about where you have been right or wrong, and chooses to let you suffer instead of dealing with the mishap and move on. The next task seems greater than the last, but no mention of the importance until the last moment to act on the impulse larger than the self. The bugs crawling just underneath the surface are really smaller replications of everything about you. The cells that make up this hallucinatory organism before your eyes. The mind projecting onto the reflection as it stares at itself in the mirror. The creation becomes more than the maker intended for use, and still it achieves far beyond the limits that world like this insisted upon. A harbinger of the faulty wiring in your head. You ask your body to sit motionless, but the internal struggle never seems to relent. That black tar from previously is eaten by and ingests the living matter as it pours innocuously from a hollow core. The life of its own measured in a linear cycle far too long for human conception, but it rides the humane urges to the hilt of existence, always seeking new vistas to exploit. The dirt becomes weak with the weight of this simple extrusion of fear and doubt and guilt, falling away from beneath the feet of anyone who dares to tread heavily, and attaches a small price to the unaware passer-by. Maybe you are out to lunch when it enters your brain, but it stains the fingertips nonetheless as you gaze listlessly at your partners-in-crime. They feel a sense of concern only when they have to, it seems, but you stare blankly at air above their as you explain that something must be wrong today. Any day, for that matter, is just like the next as you weaken and die under the force of too much negative thinking. The madness of it teeters on your tongue as you give in to its foulest desires for you. Your fertile imagination becomes its plaything. It wants you to know this because it has its own agenda here. It wants to devour your sense of self, to absorb it into nothingness, and draw your friends into itself as well. A viral cancer of social proportions that tries to pull you from your innate connection to everything else in this world. The so-called sanity shining from television screens tells you nothing of the truth that you really need to know, but that doesn’t stop the subconscious from taking in their subtle hints and clues as to what is eating you. Humans are hairless in most places to allow for a swifter transformation from this into that, and there are few things in this world that will allow you to keep it at bay. The sensitives seem to know when something is up, but they are the secretive lot that doesn’t like outsiders to permeate their midst. Society seems all-inclusive, but it is really quite barren of any original ideas. It can take a child, and lure them into the web of lies and deceit, making freedom bend and warp in its grip. Creating clones of the most perfect conformity, one that is self-policed, and arranged by the imperfect seeking the dire essence of comfort. Foolish whims take hold, and possess the decent through obsession and craving into pits of despair. Drawing the hungry masses together ready to take another order from a higher authority. A man-made service to the shifting hypocrisy that lines the bed with petals of promises never to be kept. Dreams perchance to wake up for the noxious influence of the fearsome and the tyrannical, but they are never quite done with you yet. Flock to the temples to give part of your wages to earn that precious spot in line. The next queue should open up shortly. With patience, we’ll all get there. The train of pressure and upbringing moves quickly enough to subdue most questioning right in its tracks, and leaves open-ended situations to be pondered by future degenerates of space and time. Where are we now that we can feel so much more superior to inert objects of casual observance? They obviously see things much differently than we do. We are the ones that tell you what is and what isn’t possible from where you are standing. The tension builds to find a niche in center of your own universe, but look no further than what you know right now. Submit yourself, and we shall do the thinking for you. The altar is ready for you to be reborn into something more necessary in the scheme of things. A butterfly lands on your shoulder, and you are immediately aware of the beauty inherent in this frequency of perception. The trash cans fall with a clatter, and you become instantly keen to what filthy creatures we really are. No one consciousness could control another except through insecure manipulations of a greater mass and volume. The swaying lamplight leads the way to your destiny. The desecration of humanity. A plug for convenience and the mediocre in living right. Decadent is the harmony by which you hum, and your ancestors cherish your contributions to the mess within this microcosmic play. The things-to-be need your creative force, too, but the skin can always be left behind when there is no more use for it. The corpse will blacken and bruise, rot and confuse the deeper emptiness of the world around you, and you will be able to speak whatever you wish. The trigger will set into motion an evacuation of epic scale that will never stop once it starts to tear your insides out. Those bugs will crawl out to become other things your brain could never understand, but nests those digesting sequences born from another plane. As you fly overhead and witness your own demise, speaking about all you have wished would have happened before your death, and silence it whispers. The elements corrode and wear away the breath left inside those withering lungs. Years pass in minutes, and the bones begin to crack, bleached under the energy of the sun. The heart has become something different than where it heals, the shell in which this all took place, and no more room to feel saved. The monuments erected and the weeping subsides, and those dressed smartly become fewer and fewer. Each meeting a similar fate to your own now as the time creeps by. The floating blind observer you are as the bodies form a solid mass creeping into the soil. The multitude voices have all but silenced. Now swarming into one gargantuan echo as the wind sweeps the leftovers into the grave. The sticks all break, and the stones all tumble, leaving a plateau of concentrated decay. The substance eventually coagulates together to become the black tar that started this whole thing from the beginning. Older than a chaos built from order built from chaos, the anger and regrets all filter into one pure emotive state, and the crusty concretion grows yet more leathery and textured to the touch. What, if anything, touches it anymore? Will the end come in leaps and bounds, or through those steps taken today? There is no real answer, but to never be the true answer. Kismet for the dying culture in the unquenchable age of thirst and famine for knowledge.