Mourning the Wicked
It's funny how we tape ourselves to one another-- like a child would a brand new model if he had no glue. That's the human condition; a mass of crudely constructed plastic and tape.
And with these connections there is no higher understanding. We can't see what lay beyond while trapped on our knees, servicing another human with no concern for the existance of something more.
The gods can't see. They can't love, or hate, or fuck like the animals we are.
They cannot understand the nonexist we become as we pay lip service to a wife, to find time to service the husband. The taste alone is enough to not care for the knowledge lost.
How can the world end, when it's still yet to begin.
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