These whispers, loud and aimless, brave in the face of these constant disgraces. I rise. I repent. I revise. I repeat. An overcast reflex, we think without thinking. We dream without blinking. Night terrors substitute the delicate playgrounds buzzing through our skulls. Empty; dull. We breathe because that’s what we’ve been told to do. Extrovert disguises; we have picked each piece from the magazines. Taped together. We don’t smile when we’re alone. We are the future of this decomposing planet; a disappointing chasm. Brain cells loosening. Reproducing in lethal amounts. Suicidal enterprise, we interpret the sunrise as nothing more. Rise and fall. Sage and menthol. We try so hard. We try too hard. Fit the pieces a part from the puzzle. We are original. We are cynical. We are the dirt that clings to the underside of your haggard boots. We are what’s left of the future. The delay of smoke, the substance crawling out of the ashtray. Images to uphold and characters to promote this reception of embarrassment. Holding hands/thoughtless/decisions. Carnage with intent. A breeding ground of meaningless ***. Ride the wave and bow your head to the prisons we’ve built to enslave our inspiration. Words pour out like ***** on my bathroom floor, a little to the left, unexpected sentences tangle together. Forming fiction. Resistance is all I have left.