to the nights you must have spent. the anger, and the refusal to acknowledge what stares at you through the haze. but strengthen the haze- the fog of ready ingredients- till your stomach turns sour and you can fight it no more. drift then into a calming oblivion, and wake up, hung about your cheap escapism.
to stare at the truth and inner beauty and pretend it doesn't exist. must be a lonely world. to look at paintings majestic, to hear music of soul and pretend that all you see is grey, and all you hear is a buzz.
that buzz, friend is the ego that lies bruised and takes the support of the devil. but it is his piss that you grab, and while it may numb the sensations you have yet to feel, these will persist. these will make sure that they are felt.
we deplore thy self-defecation, and we urge you to get up, and stare up at the heavens and cry and scream. run, till you tire yourself, and then run some more.
true sleep will come, and the morrow will bring with it tidings of a chaste beginning, a sober silver lining on these murky clouds.
cheap fuck. x