I can feel the world moving. Beneath, above, around, and within. Knew unto new. An expression of futility and quixotic ignorance. Faces shrouded beneath shifting folds of time. Connections and lack thereof. Faces slack with inarticulate vacuity. Tumbling through the escapades of a shameless generation. Nothing real can last in this travelcade of set pieces, interchangeable roles, vast sands of desolation, stagnant, repugnant waters. Not of life, bereft of life-giving succor. Nothing floating nothing moving.
Media junkies. Addicts of a substance far more dangerous than that of chemical euphoria. Slug-like entities. Human shells, skulking darkened on rivers of black rock. Groping for a fix in every bar across this shit-hole excuse of a country. Desperate. Manipulating. Sheparding toward self-annihilation. Insatiable sensationalists. Whip-scarred backs scraping and crawling through an ocean of spent semen and lingerie. Burn marks permeate their ligaments, dulling their ever-fleeting tangenital grasp on holographic reality. Who among you can claim immunity to this vile sickness? Atrophication of the grey matter. Axions missing their mark. Spiraling nothingness iterating itself into existence. Hildegarde doth professed.
Wrinkled, mucus-trailing swarm. Drinking clear frothy nectar. Lapping fervently the tap of devoidal opulence.