I have resigned myself to this; time stretching onwards a pale weak grey like that of a dove, promising peace -- sod your peace, after all, heaven is a place where nothing ever happens -- -- heaven is Las Vegas -- everything and nothing all at once, and around the corner of my hesitation comes a voice as lifeless and mutilated as the rest of me: "shut up and live."
I have walked unshoon through dust-choked wastelands where they strung belief and imagination up from the flagpoles, by their throats and burned all our dreams to light up a night grittier than a mouthful of gravel in a desert. tracing my tracks and trails by the bloodprints left by bare soles lacerated by shattered dreams underfoot. "just shut up and live."
I have dreams, curiosities, wondering too deeply what the last moment on Earth would be like, what it would take to breathe through the end and run face-first into oblivion or whatever's beyond it. I sicken, and weaken, and wake up gagging on my own sweat and the echoes of a voice made harsh by dysagapi: "shut up and live".