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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.

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

Carnage, carnage. My soul wants carnage. My mind wants bacchic excellence and my sacrilege demands a justification. What I desire, however, is my total condemnation. A form of arithmetic christening,

Innermost part of my veins Like an oppressive regime And Ceausescu's palace a mere analogy for my mind Empty halls and redundancy… No clear skies tonight. Darling, there are no clear skies tonight How

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