The Scale

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We are thought criminals and dancers skipping down the middle of the road as cars crash around us in the dead of night. We are strangers and lovers passing on deserted streets like whispers from a hundred years ago that evaporate like the beads of sweat on our sleeping heads as soon as they are spoken by our sleeping lips. Beneath the covers and shielded from the dirty sun, our fears only grow, and no amount of bodily delight will ever tame them, although there are often times when they seem to diminish. But it’s not real. It’s just an illusion. And yet illusions are what we deal in. They hold no weight. They leave no trace. To many, they seem so meaningless, but they don’t believe, and if there’s one thing that should be avoided above all else, it’s those who don’t believe. They are ghosts before death. They are the living dead as we are vigilantes. Every word is a fuck. Every idea a round of ammunition ready to liberate those who are trapped as we once were. So be a nail, and stand up in the face of all those waves of doubt. Be stubborn. Be vicious. Be whatever you want. The trick to is to admit defeat at the earliest opportunity. It’s facing up to the prospect that there’s no getting out alive. Only then will you know what it is to taste the pleasures of freedom. Only then will you be a soul, and not just a crisp packet blowing aimlessly in the wind. And how those crisp packets blow. How they dance their empty dance as if they had a purpose when the sad truth is that they dance for no one.

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