There is a flavor in the air. It is a taste of the mundane. It pervades the senses.
Dripping down the throat. Coating the eyes. Lost though it is in the seemingly endless
ambiguous struggles of humanity there is no light for with which to guide it. It is
copper. Gold. Steel. Salamander. It takes nothing but gives all. In it's place is the
truth of the matter. But the matter itself is the unknown. Drug through the cornucopia of
texture the thing is lost amidst the rubble of thought. Cracked on the rocks of reality
still it flounders. The otherwise intricate handles with which we grasp are beholden to no
man. Though this does not exclude the aforementioned. A winding stair. A hateful glare.
Emotionless. Drugged. In the eclipsing of the grandeur the solace of a thousand remains.