I live in a world so departed from yours
that the fragility of identity seems like a punchline.
Identity in itself is a luxury.
A world ruled by The Painter
He takes from the compass of nature your existence
And recreates your reality
I was summoned once
And as he painted he said
"Let the hands of Satan himself fashion into being an oval skull
Let the force of his hands pierce two holes in it
that ghastly eyes may find shelter
Let hardened magma
form infinite strands and coax themselves into hair
Fifty shades of black her skin
Let her facade reveal the unsightliness of the world’s injustice
Let mirrors, in great anguish and with great speed, grind themselves into dust upon her gaze
She is nothing and shall remain as such
Void of life, love and happiness
This is her calling”
Welcome to a world of dying dreams
Population: Census no longer taken due to sentimental reasons