This dangly, barely alive leg is about to cross over, yet, the gasping push is microcosmic in relation to the race. We are all running, flailing, falling, but still trying to break that proverbial ribbon.
The silence of hate. Somewhere far away, a sleeping mountain grumbles beneath. It’s all rose petals and la la la, right? That’s how this goes? Why don’t we all gather round the marmalade and sing a merry song of doom?
There are no stories that go how we think. There is this life, here, now… we do what we can with what we have left. The container is corrupted now. The whole spiraling nightmare is true, and from that irreconcilable oblivion the state of things is found. No fur-brained delusions will come true no matter how many are fed to the blood altar.
Wallow or wallop. It’s really up to you.