Hence I’m eclipsed in the magnificent indifferent specific specious indecent breeching meaningless exceeding bliss of bombast. My *** is grass, I’ve smoked my last **** and I’m broke so I’m hopeless but riding cloud nine in divine psychotic ****** illustrious lustful insightful divisive incisive mind fuckery. But I’m not talking about ***. That’s to be expected from the words I’ve been ejecting, but I’m speaking in terms of the indulgent churning I’m partaking in regularly. To no degree do I need to be cheering, or fearing the ever encroaching approach of a swift and painful death. I’ve been bereft since I was swept out of my hiatus in the ether, and I think I speak much deeper when I’m quiet, but why hide it when I’ve got so little to lose? I’ll just abuse my verbal onslaughts as a way of shaving off some time, cause I went blind a while ago, and seeing truth is burdensome to me, when I just bleed in silence in the mind, and I lack reason to pretend I’m ever fine, because the things I say don’t matter. How could they if I’m lacking any reason, holding onto nought but doubt in this incessant mental clatter. Truly in my mind the voices scream forever, no endeavor to be clever can save me from their decrees of ignorance. Perpetual ambivalence, my only friend, when I’m suspended in the dark.