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reflections on the past, the present, and the primordial

I spend my time waiting for things to happen. I am obstinate, and I paint walls red with fear of change. I eagerly yearn for rapture, yet I am inseparable from my crib. I harness lust for life from pages written by the dead, doing them the courtesy of forgetting all by morning. I commit to a new vehicle of fulfilment with every blink of stinging eyes, with no regard for the sanctity of a blood oath. If the screen goes black, I spit on my reflection after I admire it. I am horrified by the look in my own eyes. Not long ago they were made of death, the pupils nought but pinpricks in a conglomerate sea of awareness-abdication. Now they are promise, and zest, and youth, and confession. I believe there are parts of me that are truly changing. I am waking up inside myself.

like god

The promise of betterment, a night owl’s talons drawing blood, The haze of tomorrow, milky eyes of a predator that slept too little The haunting in a house of cards, packing vermilion onto dewy cheeks

Dissolute Sanguine

To perceive is to digest, and to digest is to warp beyond repair; Do not perceive that which you do not wish to be warped. i) Cessation of self prompts the veiling of mirrors, And a vampiric urge to l


It is that spectacular night sky that, shameless, spread before the eyes of the Lord, lures me to all the corners of the cosmos that I've yet to touch, bound by a sense of child-like innocence. It is


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