These are the ides of a march down Michigan Ave in the swells of March…these are the Mysteries of the soul folding and unfolding…the long lost cyphers of the indelible blackness…the shades of Orion…the blisters of nightmare…the cries of immortality…
This me, this portrait you behold is not me after all. I’m sickened by the sheer stupidity of my character in the face of such atrocious love and wide-eyed suffering. The cornfields of my essence burn with the hidden illuminations of a nighttime dull. The roars of blaze arise through my soul as I’m lost within its licks and kicks and frequent but brief moments of stifling awakeness. I am not me. Not the me you know. Just the me I know. The me who tears down your cinema screens of torrid falsity only to reveal infinite more stories and masques and screens. Smoke screens. This is what I bring to you. Constant screens of dying dreamers. One dying dreamer.
Sing pity up to me while your mouth wraps itself around the true and unreal. The wretched and the somber. The lifeless and the emboldened. Dance upon clouds of fire and call out to the Gods unrelenting and opposed to glory. Scream as my soul screams into voids. Such voids.