it's machine-like
you know? maybe
even just a
machine this life thing

unconcerned, always
working churning out
unfavorable outcomes
for those scenarios

the one's out in the
darkness, faint and
disfigured, covered
in mist

the mist is artificial
too, it's all incredibly
artificial and the
truth is that I don't

really know what
to do next, knowing
it's all products
do I blindly consume?

or do I slowly starve
searching for the
antithesis of the
cold machine?

the apparatus of flesh,
unpredictable
undefined and
entirely unreasonable

must exist to give
weight to these things
measured out
in average hate

I will keep sailing the
tide and turmoil
until I hit the edge
of the world

or until I make the
water the final
resting place of
this bitter body