haunted_by_the_dream.pdf
2024-04-27 13:50:38.702350158 +0000 UTC
In a feverish hellscape of chance and chaos, we stand on a stage, subjugated under our merry feet. We are ill A perverted desire to appease an imaginative father plagues the mind of the west, we have no guidance and ridicule ourselves in the shadows of the day. It all means moot when the sun surrenders to the horizon.
This world is bleak and you are its victim.
You dance and parade around the stage, burdened by a costume that you have nigh recollection of donning. The lines of your script to read themselves. The manner in which you imbue this thing is effortlessly sickening, the dialogue pouring out of its own mouth and eyes in a viscous pungent mud.
The crowd loves it.
Frolicking and laughing; this candid demonstration of your obedient plight runs rampant. A castrated, distilled proxy flies across the stage, feet carrying him like that of a boxer.
You are entertainment; ripping laughter and bereavement from the mouths of charlatans.
The sight of seeing your love and pride leak out of your mouth is like that of a fouled engine, pissing oil and wheezing begging for its service to end. You chew your own hands down to the bone in a vain hope that someone may toss their scraps. Instead you sit there on the cutting room floor like a ravenous hound, teeth raw and cramped with sinew. In your pursuit of appeasing these sadists, they have rendered you to a violent, unapproachable fiend.
Every moment more that you dance, you fill their bodies with your ecstasy.
Erotically, you await the reveal of their guarded, tempting approval. Errantly obedient, your wrists are lashed with the chain of an invisible hand.
Shivering with excitement;
Quivering, waiting to be used once again;
This is your purpose;
An object that thrives in a mind perverted by capital; an affair with a philistine whore.
