Your Soul Is A Shallow Pit

The plasticized romanticism of the clichéd lancet. The absence of sense in the moments when you yearn on bridges for sanity. Chugging shitty beer. Waiting for the makings of terrible stories. It was ages since it all made sense. But there was all that in between insanity that held the narrative together. Live by nonsensical ethics and you will succeed on your own terms. Because the terms of others are the bargains only fools make on rock bottom days in August. Now is the time when life makes its demands known. The unbecoming on those dreams. The happiness in your current misanthropic morning walk to catatonia. The sun and it temperature fluctuations like a biological small talk. This is what we resort to in death.