Filth

Left numb by overwhelm. Dead to perversions grandeurs. The space between cataclysm and release. The flaw of mortality. The rush and glamour. The pointlessness. The flaw of the human. Addict in the prison-like confines of ones own mind. If there was a wind like that. We would never return. If all was gone. Lost to the fade. Panned to far. Lost amidst the cacophony of shrill sales civilization and its depraved interests. Overwhelmed perverts stumbling blindly through the spaces of grand cataclysm. Addicted to the rush of human mortality and all its flawed glamour. Left to our own devices. Masturbating endless in a dopamine trip to hell and back. Pleasure palaces dying in the far gone sun. This is the winter time. A lesson in death found wedged between the glided bookends of petty distraction. A lesson in perseverance and bliss. Rub it till it comes true. Like a cock. Like a clitoris. Like a genies lamp.