Am I making "progress" in the abyss?
Is my communion reprehensible?
I'm sprawled out in the desert sands trying to figure out how many grains correspond to how many fractions of lifetimes and i can't figure out whether to shove sand down my throat or to build a sand castle
Paralyzing entropy reads thus:
How did a meaningless protozoa
In a/an (un)conventional crevice of the universe
Eventually evolve into a being with the capacity to fashion an automobile?
To fashion the paradigm that guides its own self-destruction?
We're reckless anomalistic ba*tards of the universe, floating, f**ing, self-detonatable, self-reproducing, Kubrickian mannequins
I awake and tell myself to take some sort of action in a direction that means my mother's suffering and self-neglect won't go to waste
I awake and tell myself to take some sort of action in a direction that means my suffering and self-neglect won't go to waste
I awake and tell myself to take some sort of action in a direction that means the world's suffering and self-neglect won't go to waste
This is a game of boggle marred by bloody and broken hands, riddled with self-defeating paradoxes of regret and anguish that necessitates a path of unending reverberations of despair
But you can still feel an ancient wind run through the Sonoran
And all castles, despite their degree of delusion or beauty harmonize in the hum of its erosive equilibrium