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It’s not real or true or even scary. You just

writhe in within the

dream

and no one wakes up.

 

And I’m sorry. I don’t know why I’m still here. Somehow the gods find my existence rather entertaining. Who wouldn’t? What a fun play to watch. A young girl thinking she can speak and change the lives of others. A naive lost soul still searching yet wanders into the Found section of the world as if she can take it and make new things.

And I’m sorry but I blame the gods. Or my parents. Or anyone but myself. I didn’t choose this and I don’t want it.

But I am to blame for everything else. I chose the words dripping from my mouth, I chose the looks screaming from my eyes, I chose the steps taken every day towards destruction. I chose. And I choose still.

But I can’t keep quiet and I’m sorry if I ever meet you because then you’re doomed. I will crack you open and wander inside and tackle and boil, but don’t ask why. And I’m not gonna leave you alone.

Curse desire for making us who we are. Curse Time for making us how we are. And curse this filth for ever fusing into this body.

A body wishing to be cigarette ashes to be blown away by the wind all day long. A body aching in its finite age and mortal disease. God save the flesh. And flesh is all we be. May the red run dry and the blue implode. May we wake up without eyes and without faces too big for truth.

 

They say the gods love us. If they do, may they retrieve their abandoned lost manuscripts? Drafts of lives untended, left for mold and old age.

And I’m just an angry man.

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