The insects are without dreams. They scuttle around without reason. Empty souls and lonely roads the lot of them. The proletarians, the workers. Call them what you will. They live in the gutter. They live without the stars in the sky, for they never look up. The women are condemned to shit out kids and the men abuse themselves out of the shame of being so pathetic. This is a cycle that will never break, it’s a wheel that will always spin. Love to them is meaningless. Sex is all they have. The women like the rough ones, the ones that demand false respect through fear and brain retardation. They like being fucked as it makes them feel sexual despite their stretched skin. The men like to fuck cause they’re slaves to instinct, and cause there’s just nothing else in their lives. To shoot dim seed between used legs, is what makes them happy. No dreams, no paintings. Only flesh. The ones upstairs are no different though. Instead of fucking themselves, they fuck you. They take great delight in fucking those beneath them, it’s what they do best. In their halls of splendor, the sprawling lands outside don’t exist. The world is money and power, nothing else. As long as they’re safe, that’s all that matters. And they’re safe cause the insects are just too dumb to do anything else then succumb to the emptiness they know best. The insects don’t hate them though, they hate the middle ones. The ones who have made something of their lives. It’s a simple kind of resentment, a pale sort of jealousy. They hate the wrong target. It’s tragic, but it’s the way things are. Currency. Reproduction. Celebrity. Nauseating lifeblood. Religion as nostalgia. War. Everything is blah. There needs to be a war on our doorstep. War makes us real, it makes life worth living. The threat of bombs, of bloodshed. War is god, and god is war. There needs to be a rain to wash it all away. The land needs to be cleansed of this sickness. A black hole sun, to wash it all away. I wont have any part of it though. I’m too tired. I’ll grow my beard and eat steak instead. I want to swim and make love. No cheap sex, it has to be real. Like crows flying above fields of golden corn, like birdsong at daybreak as the sand blows through my lovers hair, that kind of shit. Away from the legions of hell and the corridors of gold that I’ll never see, there’a a land waiting for me where everything is perfect. I’ll talk to the trees, I’ll swim in a river as twilight sighs to me through the breeze. In this place, this heavenly retreat, they all dance. They all float. I paint the sky, I eat the earth. In my dreams, there are no boundaries. Everything is everything. And there are no ghosts. I repel all ghosts. For the ghosts are what bring you down. Insects, pigs and ghosts. Run like hell from them. Run until your broken wings lift you into the sky then fly fly fly. Fly to the sun. Set yourself on fire in its gaze, and as you burn, let the flames dance upon your soul. Revel in your rebirth.
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