Day Twenty-Four...

Comatose on a bowl at dawn – racing with ants through cracks in abstracted waltzes over landscapes only their feet can trample… I wonder:
Aren’t perhaps the most stupid of ways of living the essence of a life well-lived?

A shabby township morning, dragging itself out of sleep. Bile scarred throat refusing even spit. The mirror crumbles its unkempt face and stony hands. But a lilting of song lifts above the hiss, and I once again rupture my chest with an appreciation of an entire generation cursed with melody. A wave of song – a mystic infecting an entire storm.

A vermillion knot swells in my belly. I am in a perpetual state of inebriation, drugged by phone calls from hell’s operators. I feel toxic.

- Later today I write to the enemy of me:
- As an adventure capitalist, questioning this suicide gene
- Of a terminator technology that profits racketeers and economic mercenaries.

Life forms as invention of industry – tyrannical lust and created wants; the philosophy of futility.

Death of birth, and perceptions being managed. I am in contempt of all laws of being. My sole mission will be to crash all bonds to my true freedoms. True, man has a right to do with their minds as he pleases… even the right to obscure one’s own consciousness.