Heavy opera. Ghostly cries. A twist on a dream. Dawning perspective. Far away hopes. A twist on a dream. Clarke’s face in half light. Living ancients. Living wisdom. Children of beauty. Children of pain. Children of genius. Children of flux.

Rain. Cheap girls. Fibre Optics. Immoral indifference. Corrupted soul. The endless monologue of modern life. Where is the pain? Is this our battle? Chuck was right. We have no great war. No great depression. Where is humanity in all this deception? Did we lose sight of the goal? Rooms worth a million dollars. Consuming hopes and fears. Daily. Ever more expensive. Daily more destructive. A rat race to the end. We sit idly by and watch the life force wasted on our short lived fantasies. We take so much but provide so little. Ulcers and parasites on God’s beautiful earth. Release the plagues.

Sick creatures of god. Hypocrisy has taken his throne. All innocence, all hope inevitably ends with him. These are our days. The beautiful dance of death. We all cry in unison. Tacky sentences. Horrid destruction of linguistics. Incorrect terminology. Artistic massacres. Total indifference. A Rapid repetition of cliché. Limited vocab. What does this prove? Hidden spiteful pride. Secret lies. The kaleidoscope of self.

We need a leader. Our courage and hopes rise to bursting point in the confides of our rooms and every night they are contained by these four walls. Adorned with necessary falsehood we provide our souls with the lies required to reach tomorrow. To what purpose? When will the spirit of youth break free? Armchair generals to the end. When do we reclaim what is ours? What the hell is emo?

The stars beckon. They mock, they tease. They watch our slow and morbid stagnation. Stars fall. Stars cry. Planets fall. People move on. Others will try. Pray to Darwin.

Humanity has been granted worldwide telepathy. Folly. Perverted static and filthy noise suffocate. Reams of unread words. A blank canvass on to which humanity spews forth its sickening agenda. This is our age. This is our world.

This is our fault.

And I am still eighteen. Grow up.