I'm staring into that hole I see in reality.
I'm vacant.
Hopeless.
My mouth agape.
My eyes.
Fixated on that distant nihilism.
At the end of the Apocalypse.
A cataclysmic crescendo replaced with the absence, filled with I and other Sons of Perdition.
Wiped off your feet.
Like so much.
Random dust.

I'm symetrically out of place.
Every where I go.
Covered in the filth of a thousand chain smoked.
Cigarettes.
And, the offal.
Smelling foul.
Mould.
****.
Betraying the lie of potential.
In my face.