of consciousness

Relentlessly rewarding the wicked, the cruel, the cold clammy causeway of serpents and coins. Better building blocks for broader plans, bigger things, grander halls, lavish luxuriants lustfully, lugubriously lamenting the disuse of authenticity into the snifters of sleep they slumber. It is the end of the real, the unraveling of the self, the disgust of disuse of disgust of the truth. We build our coffins shoddily with abridged lexicons of pretentious verse and conversations that just don’t mean anything anymore.