The lunatics of the lunatic fringe. The crumbs left on the table. The souls left to linger in the status of morality for ages on end. The percussions dimensional anguish. The leering at the edge to catch a glimpse of what? What will this quest end in? Death the same culprit over and over again. Growing bored with this narrative.
The repetitive strut of brains being molded into the playthings of the gods in the office suites with the window views. As the caverns teem with rat. The shortness of breath at the breadth of violence. The cusp of total annihilation is no longer the rudiment of superpowers straddling globes. The cusp is here in us. Together, united, alone or united in distance. The humid air in the summer hangs thick with the thought. Sometimes the whole city gets horny. it’s a beautiful sight rife with terribleness. Watching the wetness and the heat interacting like that. Standing at the sidelines of the intercourse like a timid threesome partner. Fuck their plot device.
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