A Call To Flabby Arms

Here we go. I'd give the time and place of this writing but none of that really matters. All that's important is that we are here and dreaming with our eyes open. We are told to believe the world is rotating when humanity remains in stasis. Politicians and celebrities scream “progress” while forcing us to walk backward. We follow with a smile and a veiled insult, hypochondriacs yearning for freedom but too terrified to bend our bars. Some of you our probably saying “Yeah, he's right! When and how do we start the coming revolution?” And the answer is I don't know or give a damn. I was born into this afterbirth like all the other dead cells with nothing but my crippled motivation and tendency to complain. Life is an asylum and God is in all our heads.

Nihilism?

October breeze bristles the grass behind my face. This season resuscitates conflicting nostalgia and grief. So many have fallen from my grasp at the cliffs of Autumn. Some tripped into coffins while others stumbled into the arms of better lovers. No matter. All love is predestined to plummet as cold rain on helpless leaves. On this clear night I sit in an inclined field and light a glass pipe. It's crackling harmonizes with the crickets to make a beautiful symphony. Laying on the grass, I stare at the sky in cliché fashion. So many stars. They should all disappear. Imagine this dying planet encased in black like a grieving widow! Riots would purge the continents into flame. Finally something we would could all see eye to eye on. I think of annihilation while the face of a beautiful girl gazes at me through dew drops on the grass. Serene, she sings gospel for a church of heathens. Life is beautiful, life is wonderful. Everyone is dead and the ashes claw at our bones.